Plague on All Your Houses
by Vicis Est Eternus
Summary: It was an old legend: for every person you killed, you must save three more for redemption. Stella only happened to be the first of twenty-four. Stella/Noctis AU NEW UPDATE
1. Chapter I

_Summary: _

_Burdened and tired of royal life, and plagued by past horrors, Princess Stella of Tenebrae finds entertainment in the strange behaviour of the groundskeeper and the guards, only to end up as victim to a rebellions schemes. (This was the original one, and describes the plot better.)_

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

By: Vicis Est Eternus

(Yes, I'm back to my original Penname)

_Chapter I_

IT was as if there was a blanket over the night sky, a thick, pitch-dark blanket, covering some ethereal light. This blanket had holes though, and while no light escaped the actually fabric, it peered through the millions of holes that the blanket had; due to loose stitching she imagined. The stars were the tiny holes in the blanket, but it seem right to just call them stars, for the whole sky seemed to glow. The Milky Way, someone had told her once, perhaps in a lesson, something she really didn't care for, but remembered now.

The cool wind brushed against her face, lightly blowing her hair so that it was pushed off from her face, and it ruffled her pearl white nightgown, a gift from some family member; she couldn't care to remember whom at the moment. She was immersed in her own heaven, staring in wonder at the sky above. The moon, as it were, was behind her, so all that it did was serve to illuminate the palace grounds in a haunting glow.

Stella, to her embarrassment, was once afraid of the moon, how it always seemed to hang precariously in the air, so much so that if it ever came directly over them, it would fall from whatever it invisibly hung from, and come crashing down on their heads. Perhaps the fear came from after she was told the fable that the sun was the god of life, and the moon the goddess of death, cold and pale, like a corpse, whilst the sun was warm and vibrant, like a living being.

It wasn't that far of a stretch to believe that it would be the moon who ended up killing them all, for if she were the goddess of death, wouldn't she want to die as well? It made perfect sense in the young Stella's mind, and now, many years later, an older Stella smiled at the memory, a laugh bubbled up, but did not escape her lips, and was gone in the next second.

Children were full of magic and wonder, adults of logic, reasoning and science. It took a strong person to believe as a child did, to grow up in a world where reasoning, logic and science took precedence over magic and wonder, and still believe. Fear of mockery, fear of ostracism, fear of being abnormal – yet, Stella found herself wishing to meet someone who _did_ believe in magic, even just slightly, simply to feel free again. To feel free of the binds that chain her to where she was, to be free of being dressed by others, to be free of maintaining perfect mannerisms, to be free of being _her_. To meet someone who didn't care what others thought, a child in a man's form, so to speak.

With a sigh, she pushed away from the open balcony of which's railing she had leaned on, and stood straight, looking up at the sky, then back out, to see the glittering ocean. She spread her arms out wide, closed her eyes, and let herself feel the salty air clearly.

It almost felt as if she were flying, with the salty air cascading around her body like a lovers embrace, curling around her figure, making the nightgown feel like silk. Her hair ruffled in it, and her body felt light, as if she were flying. The wind chorused in her ear, tasted lovely against her tongue, and smelled wonderful to her nose. Her skin felt slightly tingly, now that she paid it attention – due to the salt in the air, she imagined, that was the excuse her maids gave her when they forbade her from leaving the sanctuary of her room after a bath, at least.

There was only one thing that ruined her illusion of flying, ruined her dream of freedom, and that was to firmly placed feet of hers that touched solid ground.

A swallow, her arms dropping, looking like they were sagging in defeat; she held herself her eyes opened, looking more lifeless than they had in such a long time. She felt like a caged bird, a bird caged not by bars, but by other living beings expectations. She felt so chained she might as well have had the world on her shoulders, for how heavy the figurative chains were, yet still she had the strength to lift her shoulders so that they weren't sagging with a depressed air. Still had the strength to smile and be cheerful.

Day after day went by, year after year, and as the chains got heavier, so did her smiles seem more fake, more forced.

She felt like she was dying, resorting only to live in a shell.

With a final look at the endless, boundless, magnificent night sky, she turned, her face showing its burdens to no one but the darkness, as she sauntered back to her king-sized bed, covers still rumpled and overturned from where she had her nightmare. Something that was not truly frightening to anyone but her; she was glad she hadn't cried out, and alerted attention to her robotic-like maids.

The nightmare, she shivered as she thought on it, and quickened her step to reach her bed faster, to reach the false sense of security quicker. Nearly jumping into bed, her skin painted with goosebumps, she curled deep into her thick covers, burying her head in the feather pillows.

There, she thought.

The nightmare had started out normal, a scene probably stemmed from her own memory; she was in a brightly lit ballroom, with everyone wearing beautiful gowns and handsome tuxedos. There were gold and silver and sparkling gems. She wore a champagne evening ball gown, that clung to her figure like a glove, her golden tresses done up in a intricate up do, so complex it took hours for her maid to complete it, her face glowing with the make-up they put on it (subtle, but noticeable), with a breathtaking diamond necklace latched around her neck, and matching earrings dangling from her ears.

Now that she thought on it, the nightmare had stemmed from a memory, that particular evening was of her cousin, the Lady Adora, and to celebrate her seventeenth birthday. Adora had many suitors; she was the gem of the jewel that night. It was almost a pity that not two months later she was married off to some other lord twice her age.

The dream had continued on as normal, she danced and drank champagne and socialized, it all seemed so easy, as if she were in a dream, though now that she was awake, she knew that was how it really had felt like; a dream in reality. In the dream however, she had gotten more and more uncomfortable over time.

It got harder to breathe, harder focus, and continuously her hand raised to the diamond necklace. Each time, it got tighter. The dress got heavier, and strangely enough, everyone started to circle her, trapping her in an impromptu cage. The dress weighed a ton, till the point she could no longer stand; it had wrapped around her in a strangling grip, and forced her to her knees. The diamond necklace continued to get tighter and tighter to the point where she could no long breathe. It was then that she had twisted to look up, to see the people who were watching but not helping.

Her face was red, her eyes felt like they were bulging – she had needed air, desperately. She then, turned her gaze, still gasping for air as the necklace got tighter and tighter, effectively blocking off her means of breathing, and she looked right into the cold eyes of her father.

Some part of her brain told her that he didn't look like that, never to her, his only daughter, but there he was, looking at her as if she were the world's greatest disappointment, not bearing enough sympathy or compassion for her to help, not even enough to look at her in any other expression that cold indifference.

Then, he had slowly shaken his head at her, in what was clear disappointment, and the others followed suit. Pain hit her, pain that had nothing to do with how the dress was slowly crushing her body, or how the necklace was choking her.

It had felt like her personal hell.

She had woken up coughing, throwing the heavy blankets off of her, and running to her balcony, breathing heavily the whole why, a hand lightly stroking her neck, an unconscious act to make sure the necklace was not there.

An hour could have gone by, as she stared up at the stars.

Now, her eyes felt heavy, the fear of the nightmare faded with time, and with the existence of the new thought in her head, and soon, she began to imagine – once more, of a prince charming, so magical that his existence defied reality, how he would whisk her away to a place where she could do what she wanted wear what she wanted, and not care because no one else would.

Her next dreams would be pleasant, but not memorable, and soon, before she even woke up, forgotten.

* * *

"Milady," a voice began, the high-pitched sound that distinctly belonged to a rather mousy woman, so skittish she backtracked on every word she said. "I mean, Mistress, no, you're Highness, Miss, It's time to wake up, supposedly, if you don't want to I'll leave!" The poor woman squeaked out, so intimidated by those of higher status she couldn't form a decent sentence, and so used to having to watch her words she couldn't be informal in anyone, even her friends and family.

"Isola," a disgruntled voice from within the mess of blanket of and pillows called out, "fetch me some morning tea." Anything to make the woman go away, Stella thought, it was too early in the morning to hear her prattle on, trying to get a single sentence such as 'Ma'am, it's time to wake up', which should normally be followed by 'breakfast is almost ready to be served, and your father expects your presence,' or something along those lines. "Please." She then added, realizing that this was still Isola, and if she thought that she did something to anger 'Princess Stella', she would be grovelling at Stella's feet for forgiveness.

Forgiveness that wasn't needed because there was nothing to forgive, but it would happen anyway.

It was far too early in the morning for _that_.

"Um, of course, Milady, um, ah, Princess Stella, right away! I'll um, send in Regina and, um, I mean, you're most honourable maids, and, oh, I'm not one, you're most honourable Miss, I'm just ah, I mean, I'll be going now, you're Highness." Isola stuttered out, tripping over her words, using gestures that would make anyone pity her, even Stella.

It was a shame that at current, Stella still had her head buried underneath a heap of pillows, and unable to see it.

It was a relief when Isola's jittery gait left the room, followed by a softly shutting door. Underneath the blankets and feathers and linen, Stella let out a sigh of relief, and began to stretch like a cat, propped up on her hands and knees, and leaning forward, and then backward, rolling her head in a slow circle. She collapsed back into the fluffy mattress, not wanting to move another inch.

The door opened again, and this time without any words, the owners purposeful strides went straight to the edge of Stella's bed, and, without any warning, the comforter was pulled off harshly and unexpectedly.

Stella managed to crack an eye open.

Standing in front of her was Regina her head maid, wearing the dark navy and white maid's uniform, her curly greying black hair done up in a bun, and her piercing blue eyes fixed onto Stella's. Stella groaned, not wanting to deal with Regina even more than she did Isola, but while Isola could be dissuade by a trip for tea, Regina didn't fear Stella in the slightest – the woman was Stella's wet-nurse, of course.

"Stella, get up! This is no way for a princess to act, all spoilt and unable to move from her bedchambers." The woman chastised. She bent down and grabbed Stella by her shoulders and nearly dragged her off the bed. She pulled Stella's legs so that they dangled off the edge of the bed, and heaved her upper body so that it sat up straight. Regina then did what no one else in the castle would dare do; Regina slapped Stella on the cheek.

The slap didn't hurt, but it did manage to bring Stella's focus to Regina, and wake her up slightly.

"I didn't get much sleep last night," Stella mumbled as an excuse, causing Regina to raise an eyebrow.

"I figured that when you sleep in an hour after I tell you to wake up." The woman said, continuing on with, "Go now, go wash your face; I'll have an outfit for you when you're done." She pulled Stella up, and pushed her lightly to her master ensuite bathroom. Stella complied, her feet moving almost robotically.

* * *

"There," Regina declared, taking a step back and appraising Stella with her eyes. "Now you look presentable."

Stella frowned as she stared at the floor-length mirror in front of her, or, rather, herself in the reflection. A light blue dress was put on her, a darker shade ribbon beneath her breasts, tying into a small bow at the back, then the dress fell into an empire waist, the fabric falling around the rest of her figure with no tightening. A transparent dark blue material decorated with flower and ivy designs layered the fabric of the floor-length skirt. It had a modest portrait neckline, framed with another dark blue ribbon, matching colour and texture with the ribbon beneath her bust.

"What's the occasion?" Stella asked, marvelling the new dress as Regina, who was taller than her, began to brush her hair with a ivory comb.

"You're father's having another suitor come in today." Regina answered, distracted as she brushed through all the knots. "I think if I take some of the hair from the bottom," she pulled lightly on the hair nearest the nape of her neck, "and take it and braid above the rest to make a pony tail, and use some blue ribbon, that would look nice, don't you think?"

"Yes," Stella replied, "do you know who it is this time?"

Her maid was silent for a while, as she did her work, only leaving for a second to retrieve the blue ribbon that she tied to the back strands. Stella heard a slight jingle, and looked hard into the mirror to see what it was.

The ribbon had a bell at its base. She had to admit, the style appealed to her, but it made her all the more wary. Previously, Regina had put her into everyday, normal gowns, regardless of whether a suitor was coming or not, yet today she was wearing a new dress, and her hair was being done up with a ribbon that did not just come out of Regina's pocket.

"My father favours him then." She muttered, making her own assumptions, again, it almost felt as if she were living her nightmare, unable to escape. Soon she would suffer the same fate as her cousin Adora, and her loveless, soulless marriage.

"Seems like it." Regina mumbled, before finishing the braid, the bell hanging right where her hair ended. Somehow she felt like a doll, a doll for auction, for sale. It made her feel cheap and worthless.

The necklace just got tighter.

Well then, she thought, before voicing herself, "Well then, I shouldn't waste any more time dawdling." Stella then excused herself, detaching herself from Regina's fussing hands. She felt numb – was that right? Before she always seemed to feel _something, _regardless of how empty she felt.

Now she was empty and numb – because of the prospect of a husband? Who knew such an inconsequential thing would tip her over the edge. Next thing that would happen was her causing herself bodily harm simply to feel _something_.

The future was looking rather bleak.

"Oh," Stella paused, glancing back at Regina who had previously been rolling her eyes and had begun to clean up Stella's room, "Regina, tell Isola that you girls can have the tea; as a reward for all of you're hard work."

"Of course, Miss." Regina replied, nodding a farewell to Stella before giving her a smile and continuing on with her work.

* * *

He was handsome, at the very least, though she couldn't vouch for him past that, as he seemed to be more of a closed wall than her. At least _she_ tried, acted, tried to grasp some sort of humanity, try to _live_ instead being a living statue.

His name was crown prince Denato, from a small kingdom that was slowly falling due to bankruptcy, however, what was promising about Denato's kingdom was that it was beautiful; full of waterfalls and cliffs, so high that the clouds could touch – he had told her.

To her embarrassment, she couldn't seem to wait to visit, and if she were to marry the man, who was rather cold and very factual, she would be able to live there, in a world that might as well have been on top of the clouds, and rule the small kingdom, so surrounded by mountains and wildlife and so lacking in minerals that it would never be attacked, or could be attacked. It was a safe, beautiful, enchanting home. That, and after their takeover of the only city state in existence when Stella was a mere infant, there would be direct crossing to it.

Yes, she could see the pros, and could see why her father encouraged her to talk, looking hopeful that his only daughter, his 'little princess' would readily accept any invitation. Stella, however, could only see him as a means, not a person. Perhaps that was all she had to see him as, some statue she would have to keep at all times, and occasionally polish in order to live in a place full of magic and wonder.

Perhaps she could feel happy there.

Perhaps Denato was cruel, or perhaps, over time, she would actually fall in love with him, and he would remain the same cold statue.

His rust coloured hair was groomed back, his clear skin was slightly tanned, and his dark brown eyes were striking. His features worked for him, and he was tall. A perfect gentleman, however, not once did he use words like 'I feel' or 'I believe'. He was worse off than her.

It would be like living in a city of glass.

That, and the idea of leaving Tenebrae, of leaving the Flueret family for the Divum family and their country Diluculo scared her; terrified her.

When Denato had left, her father had stared at her intently, and she had stared back. She wasn't going to marry him; she did, as she believed. However, as the necklace got tighter, she knew the choices of actions for her beliefs was slowly getting smaller and smaller.

Once again she felt as if she were suffocating. Stella swallowed, and for the first time in her life, she broke their shared gaze first, unable to stomach looking at her father any longer. He was, in essence, the reason she was caged so, and the reason she felt as if she were drowning in responsibilities and expectations, weighed down by pretty words and blood money.

"You don't approve of my selection." Her father stated, Stella, still unable to look at her father, looked out the window instead, and slowly nodded.

"He's so… lifeless, father."

"Yet you can understand why I want you to marry him." Again, Stella nodded, keeping her gaze locked on the beautiful garden, Stella nodded again, slowly, surely, at her side, hidden from her father's gaze, her fist was clenched so tightly she broke skin.

"Stella, I will choose one more man; you then _have_ to chose between the two – you're getting too old to be without a husband, and eventually you'll reach an age where you'll be a disgrace if still unwedded."

"I understand. Thank you for giving me some choice." She replied, her words forced to include some cheerfulness – she smiled, but if felt completely fake, she felt like some large black hole inside. She watched her father nod and walk off, leaving her to her thoughts from her peripheral vision

Her time was slowly running out.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, new story: this one is a Noctis/Stella story, and is AU, well, sort of. This is going to be very dark, with bloodshed and murder, and will mostly be Stella-centric. Or, it will be until Noctis is introduced in...Chapter Five (literally, I've written up to chapter ten.) Stella is going to be around 16, and this is taken place before electricity, if you didn't understand. Well, read, review! _


	2. Chapter II

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter II

* * *

STELLA barely felt the earth beneath her bare feet, as she walked under the moonlight garden. In all her power, this was the closest she could get to running away, or, the closest she could run away before her will crumbled and the thought that she would never be able to get away unnoticed crossed her mind. Why was she so terrified of getting caught?

Perhaps because some part of her mind screamed at her that if she did run away, she would eventually get caught, and then her choice would be taken from her indefinitely.

She was only a woman, after all, and against a man, what could she do, really? She had it better than most women alive, having an actual education, a proper upbringing, being included with her brothers in everything but fighting and hunting. She had delicate hands, and wasn't supposed to have an opinion at all; she couldn't fight, and had been fortunate enough to be able to voice her opinion and have it heard. She was blessed enough to be able to do things according to her beliefs, but never had she forgotten that her father was merely humouring her, humouring her and if she ever were to push it too far, it would be a long time to come before he humoured her again.

Perhaps she should marry Denato Divum? If she did, she would be queen of the land there, and would probably be able to enforce her beliefs, to do as she wished without the feeling that others were laughing at her. In Tenebrae she would never have a chance to be Queen, only the baby princess whose all ideals and no reality.

Her eyes were becoming dead, she had noticed in her chambers, as she stared at herself in the mirror, trying to find some spark of life so that she can finally realize that she was looking at Stella Nox Flueret, not some doll replica.

Stella paused, her mind back in the garden; she had wandered into the maze, no, labyrinth, really. It didn't really matter, though, for she knew all that she needed to do was follow one side of the wall of brush, and she would find her way out. Even without that, however, she knew that she would be able to escape its confines; she had been in it so many times.

The leaves looked almost blue under the moonlight, in fact, everything seemed to be tinted a different shade, the grass, the gravel, and the bush walls. Her nightgown glowed, as did her skin and hair; if she ever were to escape, she would have to wear all black, she noted wryly.

Her footsteps became stretched, time began to blur as she focused on not thinking anything, and instead of thinking of the sites, the smell of the cool ocean air, the sound of her breathing and the light wing howling slightly overhead.

She only stopped walking when she had reached the centre, a small courtyard bathed in moonlight. In it was a trickling fountain, with cupids at its spout and doves on the outside of the basin. The water filled up, then gushed down in small streams thanks to the small groves in the top. The cupids held trumpets in their hands, and water spilled from those as well, in small streams. The water seemed to glow, almost seemed as if it had its own light; or that it was reflecting the moon like a mirror – which it was, Stella reminded herself.

There were two benches, pale stone matching in colour with the fountain, on opposite sides of the fountain. Flowers and floral trees decorated the rest of the space, making it very cosy during daylight.

Now, in the darkness, it seemed like a serene place, and Stella couldn't help but find she preferred it now, when the temperature was cooler, when the sun wasn't burning her eyes and retinas. It seemed so peaceful, almost… magical.

Stella decided she would berate herself for such foolish, flimsy thinking later, and to instead simply live in the moment. After all, time was short, one second passed, then it was to never come again, but, of course, there were an infinite number of seconds, so who would care if one went by? Truth was, if a second passed, one wouldn't really care unless something could have happened in that second, and it didn't.

Really, she shouldn't use that analogy. Who could do anything in one second? I minute, perhaps, an hour, a day would be better, but using those time frames didn't seem as impactful. If a second went by, and we needed to do something, but didn't, and then it was gone, that required split second thinking. One extra thought and you could regret it for the rest of your life.

It had happened once before, when a second went by, a second that she wished – a second that she would give _anything_ for – a second that she couldn't take back.

_Her mother was a noble woman, both beautifully stunning, and brilliantly charming. Her smile lit up a room; her singing hushed it. She had such a kind face, always speaking in compassion, so full of passion, her father had told her. A passionate, beautiful woman – he told her she made a fine queen. The best, so much so that she was the envy of painters, who vied her attention, her portrait. The beautiful and fiery queen, they would have titled it, had her father not told them to title it something different. _

_So they began to call her Queen Fay, for some reason, her father had told her it was because she was not like any other woman alive – so strong; a leader. So they declared her Queen of the Fay, people of magic. Others called her St. Peter's Gate, though it was not her father who explained the meaning, but a priest, who said it was a mockery of the Gate of Heaven, and scoffed, telling a young Stella that her mother had nothing to do with God. _

_He had also told her that she never reached St. Peter's Gate; she would never make it. _

_It took her two years to understand what he meant, and after that, Stella had forsaken the church that would dare call her mother impure, who would dare say that Queen Sidra did not deserve to go to Heaven, with the angels and saints. _

_Stella never knew her mother; the only physical evidence that the woman had lived was Stella herself, as her father's previous wife had borne him two sons, her brothers. She remembered, as a child, how her brothers would sometimes ostracize her, calling her names and such. _

_Then, the time came that she would forever regret. _

_Stella had a personal maid, then, and the woman was very gentle, and very skittish, jumping a flinching often. She was also very – _very_ – shy and quiet and would console Stella whenever she came back to her room, crying because her brothers had called her and her deceased mother names again, despite their father telling them not to. _

_The maid's name was Claudia, she was young, and always wore long sleeves, despite there being hot summers. She was always so calm, almost doll-like, that when Stella had come into her room crying, after a very hurtful encounter, and when Claudia had talked to her gently, for some reason, young Stella had snapped. _

"_You're lying!" She had screamed, after her maid had tried to soothe her with comforting, sweet words, "You believe the same as them! You think I'm dirty! I know! They told me! And their right! You never say what's on your mind! You're faking everything!" The young child, so heartbroken that her beloved maid had faked her kindness – according to her elder brothers – that she didn't even allow Claudia a moment to speak. _

"_I hate you!" Stella continued, "I wish you would die! You're horrible! A horrible, horrible person!" She had screamed, and then ran out the room. _

_The next day, her maid did not show up, and another was sent to replace her, this one cold, almost like a wall. The day after that, Stella began to get worried, as it the maid now tending to her wouldn't answer her question as to where Claudia had gone. _

_On the third day, the young Stella had gotten fed up, and went to search for the maid herself. She knew where the woman's chambers were – she had gone to it before after a nightmare. So, when she went right up to the door, she knocked loudly. Claudia had her own room, a small, broom-closet in compare with the others, which fit ten servants together. Claudia, however, was her personal maid; she was special. _

"_Claudia!" She had yelled, and when a specific maid came bustling down the corridor, Regina, the head maid at that time to be specific, Stella turned her head and listened. _

"_That Claudia, so much more trouble than its worth – she was only supposed to be gone-" The woman then cut herself off upon seeing the young princess. "Dear, what're you doing here?" She asked softly. Stella, knowing the woman, as the person she thought was her mother, blinked at her. _

"_I wanted to see Claudia." She told the old maid quietly. "She won't answer the door." Tears began to spring up then, her young self, thinking that her maid had chosen to ignore her now that the truth had come out, about Claudia not caring about the young girl. Regina looked at Stella sadly, back then, and put her hands on her hips. _

"_I don't believe she's in there, Dear," Regina started, "here," She dug her hand into the pocket of her apron. "We'll open the door – she's not in there, you'll see." _

_Young Stella wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. "Then where'd she go?" _

"_To see her aunt, she told me," Regina answered, pulling out the master key for all the servants' rooms. The woman then put the key into the door, unlocked it, and swung it wide open, confident that the room was empty. _

_It was not. _

_Stella screamed, hiding behind Regina, who stood dumbstruck at the sight in front of her. A knife in a bloodied hand, wounds on both wrists and thighs, small scratch marks on her neck, as if the woman tried to end it by slashing her neck, but couldn't. _

_A pool of blood._

_It was so thick that despite all the blood on the body being dried, the pool around her was still liquid. Dull, lifeless eyes, the head rolled back, the body slumped on the floor beside the bed, the tiled floor forever stained… _

_When Stella finally found out the reason for Claudia's suicide, the young girl had cried for weeks. The informant was Regina, though it was rather unintentional. It was merely an answer for Stella's question, a month later, 'why did she do that?' _

_Claudia had been abused most her life, her only sanctuary being this castle. Her father, sick as he was, would bed her, rape her, beat her, after her mothers death, leaving her traumatised and on the brink of breaking. She had run to the castle, where she told what had happened to her. Her father had been executed, but his presence. _

_Regina told her Claudia only started to get better when she began to take care of Stella, and was chosen because the woman was so gentle and careful with everything around her, as if she didn't want to break even the slightest thing. She was a perfect motherly figure, calm, quiet, gentle and loving. _

_Regina had then told Stella that she didn't particularly know why she did die, though Stella knew very well. She had yelled, said such hurtful things that a normal person would be strong enough to survive, but Claudia…_

_The woman was more fragile than glass. _

_As years went by, Stella began to accept the fact that she, in essence, had killed Claudia, all because she hadn't paused to hear what the woman had to say in defence. _

_It was all a split second too late. _

Stella blinked the tears that spilled down her face away, not daring to wipe them away. Things could happen, and if something happened to early or too late, terrible consequences could be the price. She knew that, knew that very well. She knew the pain that Claudia's death had brought to her, so she swore to never to that to herself, so that those who care for her would never have to feel the same way.

So, why, at this moment, did the thought of death sound like a gateway to freedom? If she were to do it, there would be no fear, she could stop if she wanted, it wouldn't be like someone else doing it, because no matter who it was, everyone feared pain, even the slightest bit. Humankind would prefer to not feel it, so sometimes they went through even drastic measures so avoid it.

Claudia, she believed, treated everything as glass, because she was glass herself, one wrong word could shatter her, so she took care not to anger anyone, being kind and polite.

Stella had though on blaming her brothers, in fact, she had, so many times, she had even hit them. Strangely enough, it was when she had snapped at them that they finally became close. They had apologised, for once in their lives, and started treating her like an actual sister, rather than some pest.

She had begun to smile again, really, truthfully smile, finally basking in the light that her brother's acceptance had brought to her. However, sometimes, on rainy nights she would remember how she had killed Claudia, and cry, but only to herself.

The woman she was now, knew that true happiness couldn't exist without true pain, because without knowing what pain was or vice versa, then one could never really have a grasp on the opposite. So, after dealing with the most unimaginable pain after Claudia's death, Stella had, in turn, become happier, brighter that she used to be.

A dark thought crossed her mind, so dark that Stella's eyes widened, and a hand flew to her mouth in horror. How could she think of such a thing? The death of another person close to her? Even if it was a thought it was a disgusting one, one she should never have.

_If that were true then if the death of another close to me should make me even happier._

It was a dirty, dirty, dirty thought. So dirty she felt disgusted with herself, even so much that she knew not even the worst death could make up in compensate. Wishing a death on a loved one was horrible, no, it was horrendous. Had she really fallen to the point where she was wishing a death on another for the cheap sake of her own worthless happiness?

_Another death would destroy you._

That was true, truer than her first thought. Already she felt numb, so sick of the burdens placed on her, and tired of the life she lived, of the meaningless words and blood presents. She was guilty of killing another person, and guiltier still of moving on, barely sparing Claudia a stray thought every now and then. To think of her and then such morbid thoughts… it was unforgiveable.

She was a horrible person. Unable to see the light in the day, thinking of running away due to her own personal incentives. She was selfish and pathetic because she found fault in a life others would wilfully and gladly kill and die for. How many have already wished to be in her shoes? Probably countless numbers; she had it all, all except freedom to do as she wished, but even then, perhaps freedom was a fable. It was a fool's errand. Who could really define the word?

The freedom she was thinking of, she supposed, was a selfish freedom, a freedom that didn't exist. Everyone had responsibility, even peasants, and really, every single person in existence, in every class. Did she want false freedom? Did she want a freedom that would never exist as long as there was a society? Or did she simply want the freedom to live as she pleased?

None of the freedoms she cogitated on were plausible. In fact, they were impossible. She couldn't stop being a princess, not as long as the Fleuret family was in power. She couldn't dash away her upbringing, which had bred her into a noble. She couldn't if she tried; it was _hopeless_ if she tried.

With a sigh, Stella stood, and began the winding way back into the main garden, to go back to her bedchambers, where she would eventually fall asleep. Of course, Isola would then have to wake her up too early for the amount of time she had actually slept, and the pattern would continue.

"Lady Stella?" An incredulous voice called out when she had existed the maze; she recognized the owner as the Keeper of the Grounds, an elderly man she had never spoken with much. She turned her gaze up to him, taking in his wiry but very well built form. "Is it not too late to be taking a stroll, Milady?" He asked, and Stella, exhausted as she was, almost pointed out to him that he already knew the answer to that question, but instead changed her forethought.

"It probably is; I just couldn't sleep well, thought a stroll in the gardens would be nice – after all, its safe here." She said, the end of her sentence worded in a way that was almost a challenge, a question, she stated that it was safe, and he would have to reply accordingly.

"Yes, yes of course it is," he started, Stella couldn't help but feel as if he were lying, "but nature is nature, Milady, you could have fallen and hurt yourself." In response to his concern, she raised her hands, letting him get a good look at the heels of her palms and hands.

"See?" She smiled at him, this one feeling more real than any in a long time. "I haven't fallen; I'm alright."

"That's a relief. Should I escort you to your chambers?" He asked, holding out an arm for her take, which she did and was slightly glad he hadn't noticed she wore no footwear, and hopefully wouldn't fret over the obvious cuts on her feet.

"Why are you up so late?" She asked him, noticing the fact that he was looking around nervously around the grounds.

"Oh, I have my rounds; wouldn't want any trespassers." He explained, though it seemed very rushed, so much so that Stella frowned.

"Is there something that you're not telling me?" She asked, sounding gentler than she felt, she needed to cajole him into telling, if he would ever. "You can be assured no secrets escape my lips." She stared at him fully, noting how he refused to give her eye contact.

The Keeper of the Grounds was an elderly man, though not elderly enough for him to stop. He had a full head of hair, much unlike her father, whom was balding. This man however had many more wrinkles set deep in his face. They looked like laugh lines, they way the wrinkles were, his face was very tanned, and his arm was as hard as a rock. He was thin though, perhaps that was a body type, and not that tall, either, only coming up slightly taller than Stella herself.

"I'm afraid I'm the same, Milady," He told her, and Stella withdrew, knowing that the response likely meant that whatever he was not telling her was information that came to him from either her brothers or the King, for no one would withhold information to her unless those three were involved.

The Keeper of the Grounds, whose name she learned was Leon, left her at the door to her chambers, and wished her a good night, telling her he hoped she would rest well this time. She asscented, telling him that she would.

"I'll be leaving now then; I have to get back to my rounds." He had told her, though he did not turn, probably waiting for her to dismiss him.

"Yes, thank you, Leon, you're help was greatly appreciated." She told him, smiling. He returned the smile, but still, he did not move. Almost as if he had spontaneously became a scarecrow. Stella watched him for a moment, before realizing he was waiting for her to retire. Why, she could only guess, however, she _did_ guess, and that guess was that his inertia had something to do with how skittish he was about her being on the grounds.

"Well, good night." She said finally, opening the door to her room and shutting it. She pressed an ear against her door; she couldn't hear his footsteps leaving.

Pulling back with a frown, and a sense that he wouldn't leave until she had actually retired, she pulled back, walking to her bed and getting in it. Distantly she could hear his footsteps leaving, and wondered why he hadn't left sooner.

What exactly was going on?

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the delay, the computer where I have this story has had internet problems, but, obviously, its all better now! This story SHOULD be updated weekly, so... every monday from hereon. Okay? Read and Review Please!_


	3. Chapter III

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter III

THE next day was nothing special, her father had not found her another suitor yet, so her day went on as her normal routine, she woke, got dressed, this time in a peach empire waist that was far more casual than her previous one, and went to breakfast. Her brothers apparently had a hunting trip that day, so their company was missing, leaving only her and her father.

Only small-talk was exchanged; Stella deduced he was a tad resentful that she didn't like his choice in suitor, so to make up for it she gave him a kiss on his cheek – a token she hadn't given him in a while. He had blushed slightly, and had tried to make it look like he didn't care, but when she walked away she had looked back and was pleased to see the smile on his face.

Her day had gone, and the slight glow she had woken up with that morning was slowly fading. She had given her father her first real smile in a long time.

Stella knew it had to do with the fact that she was now presented with a mystery to take her mind off of her own worries and thoughts.

After lunch she had taken a stroll in the garden, and spotted three guards in plain view, whilst before they would always be along the walls, and out of sight. It had confused her, and then counted the soldiers along the walls, and began to search the entirety of the garden, finding well over twenty guards posted.

Obviously security was tighter than usual.

Next she had went to the Ground Keepers quarters, a small house at the far end of the gardens, which she knew before was more full of gardening tools than actual home furniture. She had come with the excuse that a rosebush had died and needed removal (which was true, she had found it while looking for guards)

The Grounds Keeper was annoyingly absent.

Regina had come out bustling then, looking for her, saying it was time for her harp lessons.

Annoying distractions.

She hadn't found any free time until now, when the sun was setting; soon it would be time for her to retire. She almost sighed irritably at that; the first day she finally had an agenda, and everyone seemed to be taking up her time! It was ironic, if irony had a dry sense of humour.

Stella was in the stables, watching the bleeding sun spill over the grounds and the chorals of horses. It was nice; the sound of the animals, even the smell, she realized; very relaxing and down to earth. She waited there, however, not because of the beauty or because of her affiliation to horses, but because Regina had informed her that Leon would probably be helping out with the stables about now.

The longer she waited, the more she got the feeling that Leon's schedule had recently changed. The stable boys didn't know anything, and they were too busy for her to pester them for too long, and no one else seemed to be present.

"Nice day out, isn't it?" A voice asked her. So distracted was Stella in her thoughts that she actually spun around a hand on her chest, with her eyes wide. The voice had come out of nowhere, and was right in her ear. She blinked up. The speaker was an incredibly tall man, with a lazy smile, but rather unattractive features, or, no, he looked ordinary. Actually, he looked like a worker, or a peasant.

"Oh, yes. It is – beautiful day." _Like so many other_, Stella thought idly, as she stared at the man. He didn't seem to have a grasp of personal space, because he was inappropriately too close, and since Stella's back was already against the pasture fence, she couldn't back up herself. "Would you mind taking a step back?" She asked, politely, feeling almost bad at being so rude – and hypocritical, as she usually didn't care at all for personal space. Why did this man make her feel so uncomfortable?

"My apologies, your Majesty." He bowed his head, but did not take a step back. Stella looked him up and down, wondering what was going through his head. The stables were quite some ways from the castle, outside the palace walls. There weren't as many guards around here that would be able to immediately respond if she were to call for help. Sure, they would hear her fine, the stables weren't too far away, but it would still take some time.

The worse part was that Stella had taken a furtive escapade, and no one knew she was there at present.

"You know your Majesty; you shouldn't be too far from the castle. Haven't you heard?" He asked, and while the question in itself was rhetorical, he waited for her to respond.

"No, not really." She told him, inching herself away from the man that caused a primitive fear to erupt within her.

"They say that there's a radical group – a rebellion." The man explained, finally pulling back and allowing her to breath. Now that he had given her space he didn't seem as frightening. She almost cursed her weaknesses, her lack of strength, the inability to fight for herself, but the thought was cut off when he continued to speak.

"They're inspecting all of us travellers – inspecting and taken things that they deem 'suspicious', but really its for their own greed; what they take is theirs indefinitely, see?" The man explained, as he walked over to where a wagon was. "My horse is resting here, see? I just finished my work, now all I've got is a lack of profit, thanks to your guards, and a bunch of empty crates. I see produce, see?"

"I understand." Stella lied, not understanding at all as to why he was telling her this; did it really concern her? Perhaps he was trying to subtly get her to have the guards give him back his produce.

"I thought you would, you've always been so kind Princess Stella." He near gushed. Stella couldn't help but back up slightly.

The entire encounter was too off for her to be comfortable with it. First of all, she hadn't heard him approach granted her had been caught up in her thoughts, but that really wasn't much of an excuse. Not many could sneak up on her – a gift pounded into her from years of suffering from her brothers sneaking up and yelling 'boo' in her ear, making her scream in terror.

His shoes were normal, as were his pants and clothes, for a commoner. There was nothing that would allow him to walk so quietly. Was the man just used to walking quietly? He said his occupation was selling produce, and the crates he had gestured to before had stains only gained from long use in holding fresh fruit and vegetables.

His story seemed solid, so why was she worrying so much? Why was she taking a step back each time she stepped forward? Then again, her mind told her logically, he, if he were polite, should never approach her like that at all. A peasant always maintained respective distance; it was only expected

"You know, that rebellion I was talking about?" He continued, his steps getting longer, so much so that when Stella's mind screamed at her to run, she obeyed.

She couldn't have gotten three steps before strong arms, strong, demanding, arms that didn't belong there at all grabbed her, another hand, covered by a leather, dirty cloth so biting him wouldn't work, cupped her mouth, muffling her screams. "That rebellion is against you're country, for taking over our home and eradicating all our heritage, _everything_ we knew, and forcing all you're beliefs onto us, for the horrible things you're army has done to our people, how you're father destroyed all that we were, tearing down every monument, every historical piece of information there was, or placing it on display, in a pathetic section in you're museum." His gruff voice was in her ear, his arm cutting off her arm movement. Still, she struggled, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. "You know, the worst of it all, is that that section in the museum? It's not even dedicated to us, but a part of _you're_ history, of how _you_ conquered it, and some stupid things you found there to try to 'educate' the higher class!

"It's such mockery!" He growled, pulling her back, "so much so that we, the CRO cannot sit idly by! You've destroyed our rights as people – you know that? Every original citizen of our home is living like trash! We're lower than even you're maids! Lower than the homeless on the street!" He ranted heavily as he dragged her towards his wagon, and once Stella's frantic mind revealed to her what he intended to to, she struggled even more, yelling 'let me go!' into his hand, though the words were indistinguishable. She continued to scream, but instead, he let go of her body, only to grab her by the neck and hold her against a beam.

"I've paid off the workers here to stay away for half an hour, love; no one's coming. You? You're going to be the price of our freedom." He smiled as he slowly squeezed her throat, cutting off her air supply. The screams stopped, as she focussed instead on breathing.

Just like the diamond necklace.

"Sleep well, your Majesty." The man said with mirth, before he removed his hand from her mouth, now that the only sound coming from her lips was a small, high-pitched wheezing. He then reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cloth, a cloth with stunk of something she couldn't identify.

He switched his hands, placing the cloth over her nose and mouth, and then removed his grip from her throat. Unwillingly, she took in a giant gasp of air.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the delay - the internet has been crap. Apparently we bought our modem, but when the company we use CHANGED their 'server' (or something) they forgot to tell us, so I've had crappy internet service. Then my laptop wouldn't TURN ON and when it did the internet DID NOT WORK - so, again, sorry for the delay, the next chapter will be up this monday regardless.


	4. Chapter IV

Plague on All Your Houses

Chapter IV

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SHE wasn't sure when she woke up, perhaps it was when she was still in the crate, only it was still dark, and she lost her newly found consciousness before she could even register she was awake. It could be that she woke up many a times, but time of consciousness was so short her mind didn't account for it in memory.

However, now, that she thought she knew she was awake, she wasn't so certain. She could think clearly, albeit, at first everything was muddled, her thoughts barely coherent, more feeling that thought, so to speak.

It was pitch dark; she was unable to see anything, unable to breath – the darkness was so oppressing, it felt as if it were pressing in on her from all sides. She had screamed, oh, had she screamed; screamed until hoarse and then screamed some more.

She didn't even have a voice anymore. She opened her mouth once again, but it was in vain, the only sound escaping her throat was only a soft whisper, almost like a wheezing sound.

Where she was in the pitch darkness she could only deduce as a box. Perhaps she was having another nightmare; it wouldn't be too far of a fetch to make – she had nearly died of strangulation (fake as it was) and had not woken up till the near end, when she had felt as if she were near bursting out of her skin from the pressure.

This dream was very different. This dream didn't seem to have the feeling of normalcy, didn't seem to be perfectly logical, as most dreams did. This one felt wrong; she wasn't supposed to be here, she was never supposed to be here. She had never heard of a rebellion against Tenebrae; didn't even know one existed. What he explained was horrible, yet how much of it was true in the first place? It was crystal clear she had been kidnapped; she bore no illusions on that.

However, the question an either or situation. Either they were going to use her as a bargaining chip for rights, money, perhaps a piece of their old home back; a place where they could live freely by their values and beliefs, or even trade her for even larger ideals with even a larger gamble.

Or, of course, they could have kidnapped her not for an exchange with her father, but rather as a punishment to the King. Certainly, however, she would be getting the worst end of the stick on that one. It made sense though, if she thought on it. Her father was probably the root of the cause for many of their people's deaths, and then he went and stripped nearly everything else from them? She shuddered to think on what the soldiers had done to those who would not cooperate with the relocation and new citizenship. So, was it a fair deal? It was an eye for an eye? Kill her in front of her father, or merely send her body straight to his front steps, to be even with him?

She couldn't see anything good happening from that, for the rebellion, at least… what did they say they were called again? She couldn't remember, but was almost certain that she had heard a name… or was she wrong on that as well? Her memories of the encounter were vague at this point, and she was unable to tie together fragments of the memory into a single strand.

If they did indeed kill her as revenge then her father would literally obliterate them all – straight off the face of existence. Old, young, elderly, man, woman, child, _infant_, if they had a blue stamp on their loyalty cards, they would be butchered – and she couldn't imagine her father doing anything less.

Stella wiped her eyes, then her tear soaked cheeks, before taking in a shuddering breath, and standing. Her scalp prickled, and, knowing what she would already find, she lifted her hand. Her thin fingers touched the slimy mud ceiling and nearly recoiled. Stella walked forward, trying to get a better sense of where she was by feeling alone. Never had she had so much empathy for the blind; they all were walking miracles; to be able to walk without knowing anything, to move by their other four senses alone? It was truly incredible.

Admiring them didn't mean she suddenly gained their skills. Each step forward, Stella darted one hand forward, and then drew it back in snap-like motion. Her heart was hammering, as her childish imagination took over. Perhaps they shoved corpses down here? It was possible she was in one of their own, hand made crypts – it would explain the lack of light.

She had seen bodies before. She had attended numerous hangings; but not all. She couldn't stand it when the hangman's knot was too small, and when it slowly strangled the prisoner. It was terrible to see how long some of the people on the gallows could last when that happened; hours, sometimes. It was dirty – her eldest brother warned her against coming again, that she was too pure-hearted to watch what a spectacle.

If only he knew of some of the dark thoughts that had sometimes raced around her mind; thoughts dark enough to be sent to hell – had she believed in the church's insanity.

Stella shrieked when her hand hit the next wall, which was not mud, as expected, but a wood beam instead; it felt nearly identical to the beams at the royal stables. Tentatively, she prodded it, her fingers meeting the edge, and trailing down. Her hand met with yet another mud wall, and her search continued. She kept count in her head, one beam, first wall, and walked to the right, this time kicking her legs out to abate her fear.

She reached a corner, meeting a beam, and continued on – this room was very small, she noted, and the claustrophobia increased. She swallowed, telling herself that she needed to know where the exit was, for… purposes. It was better than sitting in the middle of the room, terrified of her surroundings.

Her fingers came across and indent in the ceiling, just a upturn in the mud that made her pause, the hand trailing the ceiling being joined by the other. She reached up, and, to her annoyance, found a hole; she was probably too short to reach the door – unless they locked her in here-

Stella froze up as yet another plausible situation occurred to her, one that chilled her to the bone and made her blood freeze.

What if they thought to bury her alive? It would take weeks, perhaps, maybe one, or perhaps days from dehydration, longer for starvation.

She shivered at the thought.

Gathering her courage – what was left of it anyway, she jumped, her fingers brushing along a wood panel, gaining a series of splinters from the uneven wood, before gravity took over and she fell back down, knees absorbing all impact. Steeling herself, Stella moved slightly to the right, and jumped again; there had to be some sort of latch – didn't there? Unless there was a lock on the other side; in which case she wouldn't be able to get out at all.

Hopefully it was just a plank, and if she jumped up, she could push it out of the way; she wouldn't let the fact that when she jumped at full height her fingers barely grazed deter her. The trap door was right against the wall, so if she dug gouges into it, she would be able to reach higher.

In theory, of course; in reality, she was in a dark hold with no way of seeing, so judging how large and how high each gouge had to be to reach the wooden door, was rather difficult.

Time passed by so quickly when one had no form of judging it.

It burned; her eyes, even when shut, watered at the intensity of it. She lifted a hand to shield it, unable to block out the light even when turning her head and squeezing her eyes shut. Rough hands grabbed her upper arms and yanked her up.

"No, let me go!" She yelled, however it was only half-heartedly, as she wanted the light to dim by a great deal. Gruff voices swore back at her, telling her this is what she got for the ruckus she made. Stella's mind raced to catch up, but everything was too bright; too bright to even see clear shapes.

One large body pulled hers into its arms, and then roughly shoved her, causing her to loose her balance and fall. Dirt was what her back hit, and she cried out, immediately curling into a ball, unable to open her eyes further than a sliver to see what was going on. Tears streamed down, and she was unable to stop them, unable to even identify their source.

Perhaps it was because when she tried to escape, all that had happened was her hand to get bashed and be ridden with splinters. She had tried again and again, certain that if she just _tried_, she would be able to escape.

She had to try, because if she didn't, and just sat, crying for herself, she would have regretted it for the rest of her live, not counting how much longer she possibly had – she wouldn't dare think of that.

After the fourth time, she managed to open it slightly, to her immense pleasure – she now knew it was them who had opened it, them who had played and toyed with her hope. It was them who had opened it and stuck their head in, blinding her and stunning her while they grabbed and tousled her, shoving her up, out of the hole, and into the blinding light room, lit by a fire and candles already melted down to the wick.

"What do you say, boys? Teach the pretty princess a lesson?" In response the other laughed. Stella, in all her strength, tried to crawl away – despite being so winded she could barely breath – towards a door that didn't even look like it had hinges, much less a door handle or latch.

Another painful grip on her shoulder, shoving her back, making her body roll slightly until it finally collapsed on the floor. Stella cried out, before crying with tears, holding her body protectively from their hands.

The same hands, that when shoved her up into this room, had groped each and every part of her body, her breasts, her private, her stomach, her ass, every part of her that was worth preserving; they touched. It made her feel dirty and violated.

She hated it.

Yet, what could she do against a roomful of men, only just having her eyes adjust to the light, in a place where she was so unfamiliar it was almost painful.

"Such a pretty dress," One slurred; perhaps he was drunk, perhaps not; it didn't matter, the only thing that mattered was that a hand placed itself right at the hem of her neckline. Stella gasped out, flinching from the contact, her eyes opening wide – she was unable to deduce whether the fact that she could now see as a blessing or a curse. She tried to pry his hands off of hers, but someone else kicked her in the ribs, making her gasp and coil at the pain, her hands retreating to put pressure on the wound.

The next thing she knew was that there was a ripping sound, and some of the pressure around her bust was relieved. Stella, whose eyes had shut closed in reaction to the pain, opened them wide as the man whose hands were black with dirt, began to tear her dress to shreds, revealing her under gown. The man licked his lips in appreciation, though the action was hardly appreciated by Stella, who lifted a leg and kicked him in a place that always made her brothers back off when they bugged her.

It was the man's turn to gasp and recoil in pain. Stella would have smiled at her small victory, had not another, the tallest and possibly the strongest of them all, leaned down, straddling her hips and taking a fistful of her hair, and yanking it back.

Stella's head complied, unable to stop itself from being snapped back.

"Get, away… stop – please." Stella whispered, as others hands restrained her own, and then a rough kiss was planted on hers, making her twist her head away in disgust. Someone pulled down her under gown, and began to put something hot on her breast, hot and sticky that most certainly wasn't supposed to be there. "No! Don't, please." She whimpered, struggling feebly against the armada against her – she could barely even move.

"This'd be you're doing, miss." Said the one straddling her, the one who had kissed her, the one who was tracing the outline of her most private part with his finger. Stella screamed, loud, almost surprised that she could make so much noise after all that screaming before.

A loud bang – where had it come from? She didn't know, all she knew was that the man on top of her was slowly dragging his unwanted fingers up along her inner thighs. She tried to struggle, and press her thighs together to stop him from going any further, but one swift command and others pulled her legs out and apart.

"What the hell's going on here? Fuck," A newcomer swore, his voice loud, booming, authoritative – he sounded like their leader, as most of the voices had quieted, however only two had turned their heads, and none had released their hold on her. The man who had entered let out an annoyed sound, before overturning a table, all the items on it crashing to the floor, gaining everyone's undivided attention. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?" He boomed, "She's our ticket to what we want; the king finds out about what you did to her _after_ we give her back – what the fuck do you think he'll do? Huh?" He yelled at them, before stalking right up to the man on top of her, and punching him in the face. The others backed off quickly.

He grabbed her arm harshly, making her body physically recoil into a small ball, as her free hand struggled to hold together her ripped open peach gown. Tears soaked so deep into her cheeks that her whole face was red, her eyes bloodshot, her lips cracked from the screaming.

Everything was over, yet it had happened so fast; her body wouldn't allow her to forget, wouldn't stop shaking under all their greedy eyes, eyes that practically screamed 'I'm going to eat you'.

"Come on," The man who held her by the arm said, almost gently to her, "They didn't mean no harm; let's go get you into a clean dress; hmm? Can't have you're father go and think we've been mistreating you." Stella merely stared at him; fear so deeply etched into her face she doubted it would be erased for a long time.

He led her towards the door, her body, too numb to do anything but obey, followed him, her other hand holding the ripped fabric close to her body, covering every inch of her chest that she could.

They walked, though it didn't seem to be enough, and he was the only thing there – no other guards, no nothing. The thought of escaping crossed her mind, then was shot down by the thought that they might do that again to her… then again, if she stayed they might…

With a shaky breath, one not much different than her previous breathing pattern, Stella's eyes scanned for anything that could be used as a weapon; something – anything, and finally landed on an old beam, a rusted nail sticking out of one end – probably taken out because some part was rotted. It was laying against a hut, sitting there so innocently.

Could she chance it? If she could hit him with the nail, straight in the head, he would die, wouldn't he? She couldn't hesitate; the times _were_ messy, after all, and if it meant not having to go through _that_ again…

She had to get away.

There was no way she could ever stay, not because of fear; they would do that again to her, the man leading her was probably going to do that.

Stella took a shuddering breath in, and ran at her captor, kneeing him in the same place she had kicked the other, and then ran over to get the plank. The man who had led her – a man she had never seen her before in her life, was swearing and cussing and holding the part she had hit tightly. He glared at her, however Stella was past reason. Who wouldn't be?

"God damn wench," he spat, "what'd you think you're going to do with that? We're _far_ from you're precious castle – and you think you're going to escape?" He laughed hollowly. "Don't make me laugh."

Stella stared at him, and, wasting no time with a retort, she raised the plank, making sure to aim the nail so that it would surely be a killing blow, and brought it down hard.

* * *

_A/N: I HAVE IT ON TIME! Hope you liked the chapter: Noctis comes in next ! So excited! (It's going to slow down starting now) Read and Review!_


	5. Chapter V

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter V

* * *

HER hands shook, her breathing came in sharp intakes and shaky outtakes. Her hands were soaking; her dress was stained with blood and mud. What had she done? She didn't feel normal at all; she felt sick, she felt dirty – sinful. Had she really just done that? She couldn't have, not her, definitely not her.

What about what her brothers had said, about her being pure-hearted? Innocent? What happened to that? Was she tainted now? Will the blood forever stain her hands? Her hands still shook, still held together her dress, as her mind forcibly replaying the scene over and over, starting from the men, all their hands, like claws of the devil, grasping and clawing at her.

The loud rain drowned her sobs out – how long had she been there?

What had she done?

What had been done to her? Her mind flashed to the man, his hot mouth on her, so unwanted it practically hurt. Her body shuddered involuntarily, though whether that was from the freezing rain, or the memory, she couldn't tell. Her eyes were wide – she was hysterical. Her sobs were high pitched, her face contorted into fear – still, despite the entire scene happening hours ago.

_Even when she brought it down, he didn't seem to think she could do it, and, it turned out, when she had hammered it down, he rolled out of the way. Stella, to her astonishment, felt her hands raise, and bring it down, this time, the nail met with flesh._

_The man below her screamed, as the nail punctured his calf. He scrambled to stand, after she removed it, however the wound caused him to stagger. With a yell, Stella raised her weapon again, hitting the retreating man, this time the nail missing, but the beam hitting his retreating back hard, knocking him to the ground._

_He had fallen with a large gasp, and with loud pleas of mercy, Stella lifted the beam once again, lifting it high over her head at the crawling man below her._

_She made no mistake this time._

_Stella brought down the weapon, the nail piercing the man's flesh in the back of his lower abdomen. The man yelled out, but she took it out again, raising the weapon, and brought it down yet again. This time, it hit where she imagined his lung to be. The man gurgled, but Stella continued with a haste, like if she didn't kill him, he would come after her – he needed to die for her to be safe._

_So, Stella, beyond all reason at that point, past sanity, and stripped down to her primal survival instincts, continued to puncture the man, hit his body even well past the man's expiration date. She hadn't stopped until her arms gave way, and dropped the weapon. Hadn't stopped until she backed up, bringing her hands close to her body, her whole frame shaking violently, then turned and ran._

_Some sadistic part of her brain – a part she did not know existed – reminded her of what she had done._

_Eighteen times – she had stabbed that man eighteen times._

Stella didn't know herself anymore, so much to the point that she was genuinely terrified of herself. She had been pushed to the limit – she knew that. Never before had she been so terrified in her entire life; so utterly stricken with fear and hopelessness. She had been pushed to the brink of insanity. First the darkness, the all consuming darkness, the feeling of being buried alive, then the fear of being raped – the actual _feeling_ of being raped, and then, her only chance at escape.

She had done the unthinkable.

She had killed.

Never before in her life did she think she would – never before in her life did she think she would stare in horror at a man, his countenance contorted into pain, his body soaked with blood, clothes riddled with holes.

It reminded her of Claudia, only the expressions were different, the way of death was different – really the only similarity was the amount of blood.

_Another death would destroy you_.

She hadn't meant it like this, though it was true enough, she supposed. She felt like a demon possessed. She felt so guilty and so hurt her thoughts skipped from one to another before they were even finished. Snapshots of his body, flashes of their hands, glimpses of complete darkness – she sped through them so quickly she was unable to think.

She… just needed to scream.

She needed to scream so badly it almost hurt, she felt as if she was bursting with so many emotions her body would never be able to contain them all until she just _screamed_.

She wouldn't dare call attention to herself. Everyone around her was an enemy, everyone around her could and would hurt her. The nameless man had been right – she didn't know where she was, how to get back, how to find her bed, curl up in it and never emerge to see the light of day.

Never again would she complain about her life. Never again would she cogitate on how mundane and tiresome it was. She would never complain about anything about her life, not who her husband was – and Denato Divum seemed to be quite the option. He wouldn't be passionate, and if her father requested that he not bed her for… the rest of her life, he would probably ascent. She could live alone, without the threat of others around her.

She didn't want adventure – forget meeting someone who believed in magic; forget all and every fantasy she ever dreamed. She would gladly wear that diamond necklace till death if that meant that she could undo what had happened. Undo the ghostly hands that seemed to constantly grab her in places she never wanted to be touched again, and undo the blood that would probably stain her hands for eternity.

They do say that blood does stain horribly – that it will never come out.

They were right.

"Hey," A quiet voice called and immediately Stella clammed up, tensing her muscles to the point she was a statue – perhaps if she didn't move, she would be missed along the darkness. Her dress and hair were bright, but now stained with dirt, blood, and tears. "Miss, are you all right?" She heard the voice come closer, and when she felt a hand on her shoulder, she screamed; it was blood-curdling, ear piercing scream as she scrambled to back away.

The man, she realized to her horror, began to make hushing noises to her, cooing her and cajoling her sweetly, like one would to a newborn babe, or a scared puppy.

Stella was neither, and just seeing his hand, made her push herself further against the corner, her sobs choking her, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

"Hey, shh, it's okay," He began again, but Stella would be damned if she let some stranger touch her, take her away, throw her into a dark abyss where monsters lurked just above. He reached for her, and, unable to get any further away, Stella began to scream again, flinching as his hand touched her shoulder. Quickly, another hand cupped her mouth, causing another rupture of panic to swell within Stella – she shut her eyes and turned her head as far away as possible; she couldn't see this, she screamed into the hand, her voice was muffled but loud enough.

Then she felt something warm and sweet upon her lips, so out of place and so delicate that she stopped struggling for a moment, just to figure out what it was. She didn't move, fear froze her in place, and then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, leaving Stella's mind reeling – what was that? She blinked, finally seeing the man as a person, rather than one of the people from before. Her breaths came in quick, but as she scanned him, she realized he was no man, but closer to a boy.

His dark hair was soaked, sticking to his face, his ghostly pale skin contrasted so sharply with it that it was almost surprising. He had a hand to his mouth, and looked away, almost embarrassed.

"Um," He began, looking at her, "I'm sorry, you just wouldn't calm down and…" He looked at her again, and seemed to gauge her expression, before sighing, and slowly reaching for her hand, his touch so tentative she almost felt safe, and then he slowly moved his hand forward, and gripped her wrist lightly. "Come on," He murmured gently, and despite the fact that Stella's face was highly suspicious and wary, she was almost too tired to care, liking how gentle he was.

He tugged lightly on her wrist, urging her to go closer. Strangely enough, Stella complied, however when he wrapped his other hand around her back, she flinched, and began to shake again, their hands beginning to grasp at her again, clawing and grabbing and violating her.

He let go.

"I'm sorry." He apologised. "I'm going to carry you to my home – so you can get out of the rain and get some sleep, is that okay?" He asked her, looking so intensely in her eyes that Stella merely blinked at him.

Slowly, she nodded, and the boy tried once more, this time he stood first, and then bent down to her form, hutched up in a small ground on the floor. He scooped her legs up, keeping his arms under her knees, and, while his grip on her back caused her to freeze up and whimper, he merely whispered his apologies, telling her exactly where they were going, what he was doing, and simply telling her it was going to be alright.

She wanted to fall asleep, but their hands still gripped her, still found new form in everywhere the boy aiding her touched. Her body hated the contact, but her heart loved the gentle comfort. When he paused, her body tensed up again, fearing the worst, but all he did was slowly let go of her legs, allowing her to stand, and kept a hand on her back until she flinched away.

He opened the door for her, the door itself swinging inward with a lout creak, and gestured her inside. Upon seeing that Stella didn't have any intention of going into the dark room, another fear rising in her, the boy sighed and stepped in himself, and, after moments of him shuffling around the dark room, a lone candle was lit, and brightened up the room.

It was small, immediately reminding her of her dark imprisonment, only with poorly made wooden walls, but the dirt floor was the same.

"Um…" He began, as if he were still unsure how to approach her. He pulled out a small package wrapped in thin, dirty cloth from a pocket in his ratted coat. He unravelled the package, pulling out a sandwich Stella, by all means, would normally turn her nose up at. The boy, however, in the flickering light of the candle, looked at it with yearning, and, with a hard swallow, handed it to her.

Stella did not move, still so petrified by his mere presence to do anything.

"Ah, I'll just leave this here," He set the sandwich down on the blanket. "You can sleep here," He patted a bed made of straw, "I'll sleep somewhere else." He then looked at her, gauging her, and then gestured to the door. "There's a lock; it's only useful if you're inside, but there is one – you can lock me out if it makes you feel any better." He then stood up, and walked back out, stopping only to beckon her inside. This time Stella's body complied, shuffling inside.

"Where," She began, her voice cracking, "where will you sleep?" She didn't turn, taking a tentative look around the room.

"An inn," he told her, though his voice seemed slightly strained. "I'll be back in the morning with more food." He told her, before stepping in – an action that made Stella flinch back – and reaching and pulling the door shut.

Stella almost hated herself for how fast she pulled down the lock, latching it in place. She leaned against the doorframe for a little while, standing in the water soaked floor, and cried. This seemed too surreal, to fake. It had to be a nightmare – right? Time lost some meaning as Stella slumped herself against the door.

Everything was wrong, this was not how she lived; this was not what was supposed to happen. She was the princess of this entire country! The _only_ princess – wasn't that a guarantee enough that she would never go through what she went through? Or was she only naive in thinking so.

Stella, taking a deep breath, walked towards the sandwich and the straw bed – the only providence of warmth being a thin blanket and the candle. She sat on the bed, ignoring the jabs of the uncomfortable straw, and picked up the sandwich off the floor, taking a large, greedy bite out of it.

* * *

Was he an idiot for giving her everything he had? Yes, probably, though there was some morals that would have never let him do anything but. She was a helpless damsel, a woman who had probably been raped, by the way she acted – an occurrence that was as common as trespassers in the homes around.

The dress she wore was expensive – perhaps she was a noblewoman or someone of higher class that had decided to take a stroll down this part of town, probably to _laugh_ at how lowly the 'underclass' lived.

Hatred boiled unevenly under his skin, as thoughts on how they lived came up, before he managed to push it down.

It was also possibly that she had been merely travelling before people managed to 'apprehend' her.

He cursed slightly, at his sympathetic thoughts, the rain pouring down, and his starving stomach. Such a gentleman he was, he thought wryly, as he gripped his screaming stomach, to give his only meal in two days and his home up to a stranger. He looked up, scowling slightly at the poor roof he had managed to find for himself – a thin drapery that probably once acted as a cloth roof for some veranda long ago, before it was torn to shreds and did very little to shield one from the elements.

Water still dripped on his head. He scratched a part on his face, before trying to settle himself better so that he could finally get some sleep.

He still couldn't help but think of all the hard _work_ it took to get the small shack to begin with. Belatedly he reminded himself that it was only for tonight, perhaps a little longer, but not too long – it wasn't as if she were stupid enough to put the candle close enough to her bed.

She would be burned alive, along with his house – at least she would get what she deserved for her stupidity.

He lightly touched his lips, trailing them with his forefinger's nail. He hadn't meant to kiss her, but when she continued to scream, he really had no choice. It was the first thing that came to his mind when the question – how do you shut up a raving woman?

He shook his head before thoughts could get away from him – or emotions. She had to have shut up or else Tenebrae guards would have found them, thought he was doing illegal and sinful acts – which he was not – and then probably get sentenced to the gallows.

Really, helping her was a courtesy – kissing her was required.

He swore again, before settling in for the night.

* * *

_A/N: ...I don't think that's how it works, Noctis. But anyway! Here's the next chapter! Thank you to all my wonderful reviews and to all of you people who have read this and liked it. I'm honoured! Next chapter will be up next monday - as this story is updated on that day. _


	6. Chapter VI

PLAUGE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter VI

* * *

FREEZING – it had been cold _all_ night. Never before had she shivered so much as she slept than she had that night. Water dripped from the ceiling, hitting the dirt floor, turning it to mud. Another drip hit her legs, and another dripped above her head, which was more infuriating than anything.

Every loud noise had her flinching, and even when the thin blanket or a piece of straw touched her wrong, she flinched, her heartbeat raced, and numerous times she almost cried out. It wasn't supposed to be like this; normally she didn't frighten easily – yet why was it that every bump, every noise made her thing one of those men were going to go and grab her again? Finish what they started?

It was a long night, to say the least.

She woke with a start at the knocking on the thin, flimsy door. Stella looked down at herself; only wearing her undergarments, her white under dress and the actual dress – ripped as it was – were off her body, hopefully drying at the end of the bed. "A moment," she pleaded, as she scrambled to get the white garment on her body, her body twisting and tangling in the thin sheet before she stood, grabbed the white dress, and threw it on her body.

It was freezing and damp, despite her efforts in wringing the water out of it the previous night. She didn't feel comfortable letting the man who helped her last night see her in such attire, so to her loathing, she also put on the dress, and held together the ripped part with her left hand. "Who is it?" She asked, not wanting to open it up for anyone except the owner of the house.

"Noctis." A male voice replied, much to her confusion. Was that the name of the boy who helped her? Now that the day had come, last night seemed more like a horrible nightmare, a nightmare with scarring attributes. At least she was able to keep a clear head – after all, if he helped her, even going so far as not even sleeping in his own home, instead opting to sleep in an inn so she wouldn't feel uncomfortable. He gave her food and shelter, was patient and caring.

She had to give him a little trust.

That didn't mean she would allow for him – or any other man – touch her again.

Her silence must have told him what she didn't know, because the man, Noctis, spoke once more, "I helped you last night?" He tried. "This is my home?"

Stella steeled herself, and opened the latch, swinging the door open, revealing the same man from last night. In the grey morning light, she was able to tell his features better. Dark hair – not black, as it had appeared last night, but rather a dark brown – bistre, really – and he had dark blue eyes – she would guess to be a Prussian blue – nearly undistinguishable unless she looked really closely.

Rather good-looking, once she looked past the tattered clothes, the greasy hair and unwashed face His eyes were emotionless, almost dead looking, though his countenance showed his nervousness. Stella shifted unconsciously, as she looked up at him. Belatedly she realized he was waiting to be allowed in, after all, this _was_ his home – she didn't have a right to not let him in.

She stepped away from the door, allowing him in. As he complied, Stella's eyes lingered on his clothes – soaking wet…

He said he would spend the night at an inn, but his clothes were soaking wet, as if he stayed out all night. Stella's eyebrows twitched into confusion, as she gazed out to the dirt street. It was still raining, the magnitude abating to mere mist of rain, but rain nonetheless. Stella's eyes swivelled to examine him more closely.

He was deathly pale; his hair was still wet, his clothes soaked. His form was shivering slightly. Horror spread through her – he hadn't, had he? She never thought of it before, never thought that it wouldn't be possible that he wouldn't _actually_ be able to find other lodging for the night. Now that she thought on it, it did seem odd that he didn't put _her_ in an inn, and he stay at his home. As she thought back, ruminating on the previous night, he had looked so… _yearningly_ at the sandwich – the sandwich he had given up with no fuss.

She had been hungry, yes, but probably not as hungry as he was.

"Sleep well?" He asked, without sarcasm, but genuine – if not a bit exhausted – concern. Stella nodded. She swallowed, concerned for the boy, but not exactly willing to get close to him. Same ghost hands flitted along her skin – how long would it take for them to disappear?

"I slept fine… Noctis," she began, trying to maintain manners. "And you?" She couldn't call him on it, because she knew better than most a man's pride – her brothers did the most foolish things on that subject alone.

"That's good." He murmured, ignoring her question, as he knelt examining the candle. "I have breakfast." He announced, and Stella found herself hoping that he had enough for him too. Last night was chivalry; if he did it again it would be foolishness.

"Oh?" She queried, as he sat down on the straw bed, reached in his jacket and pulled out the same thin cloth as last night, and unravelled it, revealing a small loaf of bread. Stella almost wrinkled her nose at it, upon seeing the state it was in – probably mouldy here at that point.

He ripped it in two, and she politely took it, eating warily and avoiding any discoloured spots. She watched him eat, no, watched him _devoured_ his share, and once again was faced with the fact that he was probably starving. Her own stomach twisted, but she figured she could spare herself to wait. She held out her barely eaten bun. "I… I'm not that hungry." She tried, not sure if he would be offended. Noctis merely looked at her, before reaching out – making her flinch – and took the bun from her.

Stella curled her hands around herself, and looked away. Before she had been so bored with life she thought herself as a living shell, thought of death as a sort of release, but would never act on it. She had been spoiled, she knew, though the implications never hit her until now.

She was lucky she never voiced her childish thoughts to anyone else, for she would feel like such the fool now.

"I'll take you home," he offered, as he stood. "Or take you as far as I can go – you are of nobility, I suppose." He nervously looked away.

"Thank you." She worded, more genuinely thankful to him than she was to anyone in her entire life. "For everything," Stella clarified, just to make the point clear. He didn't overstep the new boundaries she had suddenly placed around herself, and he gave her probably _everything_ he had.

She watched him, and noted that while he offered to take her home, he didn't seem to be willing to leave anywhere just yet. Taking in his lightly shivering form, and the bags under his eyes. "Um," she began, biting her lip, unsure as to how she should word it, "you need more rest." She finalised. He glanced up, and watched her stand, giving him wide berth, and sit down on the other side of the hut, regardless of how her ruined dress got dirty – what did it matter anyway?

"Yeah." He mumbled, before switching his place to where hers was previous. He settled into the bed, acting as if it were the lap of luxury, and soon – faster than she would have expected – he fell right asleep.

Time went by; how much she could only guess, long enough for her own eyes to begin to drift shut, as she watched him sleep – out of nothing else to do, really. She flinched each time her eyes closed, thoughts and fragmented nightmares of those horrid hands jolting her awake, only to see that her roommate was still slumbering and, in essence, she was completely alone.

Hugging herself, she spent her time openly staring at the boy. He seemed innocent, in a sense, at least around her; though, in some aspects, he was not – like some war veteran in a new, peaceful surrounding. No, that wasn't right – what was she thinking? She must have been more tired and stressed than she thought, to think such… honest stupid things.

He wasn't like that – he was just…

Her mind buzzed, for a lack of a better word. It hummed in near malfunction. Why was she so tired? Was it because of the terrible night she had? Probably. Her thoughts drifted to sleep, fantasising on her bed at home, comfortable and soft, with silk sheets and pillows, and thick, embroidered bedspread, with a duvet made of small, fluffy feathers.

Her eyes drooped, as she thought on her own bed, finally appreciating what she had. Before bed she could order a hot bowl of soup, something with so much flavour and so hot she could feel the heat as it went down her throat before settling in her stomach. She would take tentative sips, savouring the taste, before taking larger spoonfuls.

She would devour it, as her own stomach added, and be happy and content before she slipped in to her bed, feel the watery flow of the sheets against her clean skin-

A bath; she would take a bath first, once she got home, a nice, long _hot_ bath, full of soap and oils and spend hours there, alone, with only a maid – a _female_ – maid in her room in case something happened to her. She would soak everything up in the water up, and rid herself of all the dirt and grime and _memories_ that she had accumulated during her 'kidnapping'.

She would dress in the thickest, softest robe, before returning to her room, where the maid would have already prepared her nightgown, and the hot soup, of course. Then, when she finally went to bed, with her window firmly shut and guards patrolling the halls of her locked room, she would finally fall asleep, free of all worries and…

"Miss." A voice called, jerking Stella awake as she looked around frantically, trying to discern where she was and why she was there, before she realized that it had only been a dream; she was still in that boy, Noctis' home, still probably far from her bedroom, from safety.

Noctis stood, staring at her, half bent, as if to see her face more clearly. His head was tilted, and it looked as if he was going to shake her awake, before thinking better of it. Stella blinked up at him, before nodding, and standing up.

Her shoe caught on the hem of her dress as she stood, throwing off her balance, sending her forward, her arms struggling to untangle themselves- a hand shot out, followed by an arm, before she was pulled into a strong embrace.

The first second, as her body was still in shock, her mind and heart caused a blush to erupt along her cheeks; she had never been held like this, so close, almost comforting…

The next second, however, everything went to hell. Her body, which had been in shock for the first second, and thus unable to react, kicked into overdrive, and her mind began to scream at her, reminding her of their hands, his mouth. She screamed, and began to struggle.

Her mind reeled, trying to catch up as her heavy breathing began to slow. Where were the hands? Whatever heat there was had left, and suddenly she felt very cold. Stella blinked; looking up, and saw Noctis, looking concerned as he clutched his hands close to his abdomen. Stella swallowed as her mind pieced together what it was that her frantic mind had missed. It almost seemed like a foreign concept.

He had let go.

The moment she screamed, the moment she struggled, or perhaps even before that, when she tensed, he had let go. So quickly, so unlike what those other men had done. She had screamed and screamed and struggled with all her might; she even begged to be let go, for them to stop; yet they didn't. They pinned her down, continued despite her unwillingness. Noctis, however, had let go.

"I'm sorry." She breathed out, "I'm really, really sorry – I didn't mean-"

"Don't be stupid." He interrupted. "You're not the first woman to get raped; I understand." He seemed so understanding, even backed up, giving her a half-smile, before he reached for the door. "I'll just wait outside while you… um… collect yourself." He worded, looking embarrassed, before disappearing outside.

Stella didn't leave.

Her mind reeled, replaying that one word over and over in her head: _raped_.

She _hadn't_ been raped. Not in the way he was suggesting. She hadn't lost her virginity and they never even reached that part of her – bare anyway, though she reckoned that the experience would have been far worse if their hands touched her bare, without the thick dress acting as a shield. Was she overreacting? She didn't think so – even _Noctis'_ touch brought forward such fear in her. She didn't think she could make such a thing up.

They only touched her – a terrible thing, of course, her body still tensed in fear and disgust as her memories brought forward the previous night.

It could probably be because it happened so recently.

Still, Stella couldn't help but feel she was being spoilt again; was she shaming every woman out there who _had_ been raped? Granted, Stella _would_ have been raped, had the man she killed not interrupted.

She killed.

"Oh no," she whined, before falling back against the wall. "No, no, no!" She cried out, as she slumped down to the floor. "No, no, no, no…" She murmured, holding her head in her hands. How could she have forgotten? How could she… "No, NO!" She screamed out, tugging at the roots of her hair – some pain in compensation. He technically hadn't done anything to her, just a faceless, nameless man.

The door opened again, as Noctis came to see what the yelling was for. He looked at her, confused. Stella raised her head to meet his gaze, her eyes glassy with tears.

Guilt crawled at her as yet another memory from the incident that only just happened, really.

His face, his countenance, filled with hurt, as she screamed and struggled, just after he released her, before clamming it up, making it rather blank.

She was a monster; a monster playing the victim, really.

* * *

A/N: Sorry its a day late! I was feeling a little under the weather, and actually fell asleep at 7:30-8:00 and slept throughout the night! So, here's MONDAY's update! Sorry, again! Read and Review!


	7. Chapter VII

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter VII

* * *

NOCTIS sat next to her as she cried, though for the reason, he couldn't actually tell. She repeated the word 'monster', over and over, though she seemed to be talking more to herself than anyone. He stared at her, his eyes narrowing in concern.

This _wasn't_ supposed to happen. This woman was _never_ supposed to remind him of _her. _Not from that little girl, whose smile was so bright, so innocent. He swallowed, forcing his gaze away. Why were the memories coming up _now_? This woman had to be three times the age of that little girl, though, he had to admit, and he had found himself pondering if _she_ would have grown up to look like the blonde next to him.

Perhaps it had started when he had woken up, only to find her still asleep. To say he was shocked would have been appropriate, as he had frozen as he took a good, clear look at her face. She looked so peaceful, so innocent; so _beautiful_, his thoughts were momentarily distracted. Her face was angelic, almost, even under the dirt and tears.

He had taken to avoiding looking at her face, for the emotions that were etched on it were so painfully raw he almost felt embarrassed to look at her; as if it would be an invasion of privacy on his part. So, of course, he had never gotten a good look at her, not even under the rain when he first met her.

Her features were soft and delicate, so much so that he couldn't help but think of _her_, whose face was equally soft and delicate, only surrounded by a hint of baby fat. The little girl, whose gaze so thoughtful and compelling, also wielding one of the most blinding smiles he had ever seen.

It was then that he wondered if the woman next to him, if she were to smile, would it be as blinding as _hers_? Or would it be enchanting?

That was before he cursed himself for such thoughts.

Sitting now, as the same woman he thought of smiling called herself 'monster', over and over, in a mantra, he found himself thinking of _her_.

He was unable to stop.

_The days had been miserable; rainy season in the ghetto was always terrible. There was no vegetation of any form to soak up the skies tears so the streets became thick muddy trails, so hard to walk through that the inhabitants actually took pieces of their own homes to use as a pathway, a way to step on the mud without sinking – something that usually never would have taken place._

_He had been struggling to find some work, going from the ghetto to the slums daily._

_The slums, in his opinion, were better off than the ghetto, with more jobs available and more life than the ghetto. The ghetto was a large, dead area that was too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, and was nearly flooded during rainy season. Unlike the slums, the ghetto had only a few places that accumulated income, and Tenebraeans ran those. It was heavily militarized, packed with rundown homes, with no form of modern advancement anywhere._

_The ghetto was the bare bones. In the slums, there were wells, and useful things. Candles were everywhere, and the streets were lit by old streetlamps. Yes, those in the slums probably had it better off, though not by much._

_The difference? The slums inhabited those who migrated to Tenebrae of their own free will, to escape the onslaught of war that ravaged their country. Those that lived in the ghetto were sent there as a form of punishment; for being related to soldiers, government officials, or just those that refused to leave. They were labelled as 'dangerous for their rebellion nature', and shoved aside in the worst living conditions imaginable._

_Sometimes he hated his parents for the decision they made for him. They chose to fight – something he was proud of, certainly – though because of their spirit, they were killed and he was left in the care of a stranger, and dumped in the middle of the ghetto, and unable to leave for six entire years._

_He was only five when he moved there, and the ghetto became his world. Those that lived there were fed rations, and many died from both famine and disease. The woman who had taken care of him did a good job, considering he was still alive. He didn't know who she was, though she did seem to know who he was. Perhaps she knew his parents; though it didn't matter, as she had died only a year after the restrictions were taken off, and the inhabitants were allowed to move to the slums, accumulate money and work for themselves._

_Of course, this meant that the rations were cut._

_The woman who had taken care of him had died from starvation, as, without the rations, they had to scrap food together for themselves. More than once she gave him hers, with only a smile as he stuffed his face with it._

_A week before she had died, she told him to never feel guilty if someone dies for him, for it would ruin their memory and their pride. If they had died for him, then it was of their free will, something to be cherished not ruined with the useless emotion of guilt._

_He didn't understand until she was found dead, eight days later. He hadn't been able to wake her up._

_Now, at the age of fourteen, two years after his caretaker died, he searched for work in the slums._

_It was there that he came across a pickpocket._

_He grabbed her wrist as she tried to reach into his pocket, though the action was useless; he didn't have anything there. He spun to face her, and was surprised to see that she was just a little girl, probably six years younger than him._

_He expected her to try and bolt, but instead she looked at him sheepishly._

"_Oops." She said, "Guess you're good, huh?" Her reaction was unexpected, as Noctis looked at her, confused. "You know, mister, I bet you don't have anything on you!" She giggled at that. "I didn't think you would." She admitted, talking despite the fact that he hadn't said a thing to her. "My name's Lillian! Well, actually, its 'Lillian Rose', though I don't know why – my Mama used to call me that!" She told him cheerfully. Noctis looked at her warily._

"_Where is she now?" He asked her, though he knew the answer. He let go of her wrist. The small girl – he guessed her age to be eight or nine years old – looked at him for a moment, before her face turned blank, almost solemn._

"She's with the stars, now._" The young girl whispered in their native language, something that was hardly used. Noctis frowned._

"_You alone then?" He asked, and she looked away thoughtfully._

"_Maybe." She answered enigmatically. "Hey, want to play a game?_

Games, that girl really loved her games, making everything she did, even stealing; a game with severe consequences, actually fun.

"How are you a monster?" Noctis asked, as the blonde woman's mutterings made their way back to him. She stopped immediately, and then was silent for a long time. He looked over at her, taking in her face, her long blonde hair.

Lillian's hair was naturally curly, though it looked sagged and dirty all the time, each time they were caught in the rain, and it dried, her hair gained curls.

"I killed a man." She muttered finally, dragging Noctis' attention back to the present. "I didn't need to; I could have let him live…" She trailed off, and before Noctis could say anything, she continued. "I wasn't raped, by the way, though a second longer and I could have been." She admitted.

Noctis looked away; he really was an idiot. "I knew someone, who was raped," he started, his voice sounding awkward to him. He shook his head. "Sorry; I'm not used to talking to girls." He apologised, only to verbally curse at himself, as he realized he had told a lie. "Well, no. I had a friend, she was eight; I could talk to her, but, um," He trailed off himself. The two fell into a silence before it was broken by a small giggle.

Noctis looked up to the blonde, shocked at the small laugh that left her lips. She looked at him in almost appreciation. Belatedly, Noctis realized that he should talk more, as she was enjoying it, was being distracted.

"There's a legend – from my home," he clarified, his words starting off awkwardly; talking to strangers wasn't easy for him, especially when she reminded him of Lillian, and _especially_ when stray thoughts concerning how she was pretty, drifted along his consciousness. "I can barely remember it." He admitted.

"What do you remember?" She prompted, staring at him directly in the eye. Noctis looked away again, unable to keep her piercing gaze. His face felt warm, though he would deny the reason – probably a fever.

He began to play with his hands, "It's really old. It starts with this man. He was a good man, an honest one. He was a successful merchant." Noctis stopped wringing his hands, brought up a knee, and rested an arm on it, the other falling to his side. "However, one day, as he and his wife were travelling, and he was buying something from a house nearby – she had wanted to stay outside, though I can't remember why.

"He heard her screaming, and ran outside, up the road, I believe – she might have seem something; I don't know. He ran to her, but when he finally made it, his wife was dead, and there was a very spooked, traumatised thief. In a rage, he ran, took the blade that had killed his wife, and killed the man who had done it.

"I… I can't remember what happens directly after that – he mourns, obviously, and he's all alone now – or at least, I don't remember him having any children. On the anniversary of his wife's death, and his murdering the thief, our goddess of death, came to him, and told him that he was going to be punished for killed an innocent man.

"The man was furious, and tried to attack the goddess, but was unable to. Then, the goddess took the form of his dead wife. She told him the same thing, though he couldn't attack her.

"His punishment… I can't remember it, though I do know that it ended him saving the lives of three people. The goddess had come to him again, after he saved the third person's life, and told him what happened, how the thief _had_ tried to rob his wife, but his wife, frightened, tripped, and fell onto the blade that the man used for intimidation. An accident.

"See, in our culture, a sin can be repented, if the person if truly sorry – the man became sorry, I guess, through his punishment – and if the opposite of the sin was performed thrice the amount of the sin. The man killed another, and saved three people, see? So the goddess forgave him."

The blonde nodded thoughtfully, "So, if I save three people, I'll be forgiven?"

"So the legend says."

"I like you're legends." She mumbled, before curling in on herself some more. "Actually," she corrected, "I'd have to save six people."

It was not his place to speak on what a noble woman did, though he had to admit, he was surprised.

"I have to save twenty two people."

"How many people did you kill?" She exclaimed, and Noctis glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Eight. Six in self-defence, and two in revenge." He would prefer not to talk about that, "Should we get going? I think you wore my voice out." He joked as he stood, before catching himself on his wording. He was starting to treat her like Lillian, though, to be sure, this woman was _not_ Lillian; not in any form of the imagination.

"My name's Stella," she said, as she held out a hand for him to take, and Noctis was slightly surprised at the act of trust from her. He leaned down and took it, watching her carefully as she clenched her teeth and tensed. He dragged her up, and, to his surprise, she gave him a small smile.

Perhaps saving her wasn't such a bad thing after all.

* * *

A/N: So? Mm? What'd you think?


	8. Chapter VIII

Plague On All Your Houses

By: Vicis Est Eternus

_Chapter VIII_

_

* * *

_

TREPIDATION coursed through her body as she looked around fearfully, trailing Noctis closely as she tried to hide herself from any unwanted eyes. Though, to be perfectly honest; there was no one outside – she actually wondered why. True, it was raining still, and not many people could or would work in the rain.

As time went by, as Noctis navigated their way through the labyrinth of run down homes, the houses became more collected and more tightly packed together. Now, she noticed people.

They were huddled in corners of homes and under anything that would provide as any sort of shelter. It took a while to notice them, as they blended into their surroundings so well she might as well have missed them. "Why are they all here and not anywhere else?" Stella whispered to her companion, careful to make her voice unheard by any eavesdroppers. Noctis merely looked down at her, an almost sad expression on his face.

"They're everywhere; here's a hotspot though; as this is where the only daily intake of food comes in, so they're larger in number. You just missed them before." Noctis murmured to her, before turning his attention ahead, leaving Stella's thoughts to herself. She focused her attention on the homeless, her eyes now actively searching for them.

She was almost surprised to find that there was nearly double the amount than she first saw, only they were hidden so well, blended so well in the dreary background they might as well have disappeared. The rain also made it hard to see.

It was a wonder Noctis had noticed her at all.

Stella nearly froze as the thought came across – it _was_ nearly a miracle that he noticed her; she hadn't wanted to be found, and now that she thought on it, in the pouring rain, it had been next to impossible to find her at all.

How good were his eyes?

Her mind was dragged back to the present as Noctis froze in his spot, making her bump into his back. She flushed and began to apologise, before a large hand placed itself on the top of her head, and began to push her into an alleyway. Stunned, Stella complied, looking up as Noctis motioned with his eyes that she go back further, before looking ahead, almost frantically.

Confused, but trusting him enough to comply, Stella did as asked, retreating to hide behind some rubble and rotted wood. She strained her ears, so that she could hear what was going on exactly. It was quite difficult, as she had to hear above the light drone of the rain hitting puddles and the tops of the huts – they could barely be called a roof, so she refrained from doing so.

As much as she tried, she couldn't tell much; her position was too far back to hear anything, though she did get the impression that someone was talking to Noctis, the question was – who?

* * *

The walk was almost boring, he was wet – though he didn't really get dry in the first place – and had woken up too early before. In the silence he thought on how he was going to pay Carl back, as the man had made it abundantly clear that Noctis would have – with interest, even.

Carl was in charge of maintaining the food stock, and if anyone wanted food from him, the man would give it – the price? - Any sort of favour in compensation. The times before Noctis had been desperate enough to use such methods he ended up from having to pickpocket from Tenebrae _guards_ and stealing the wares of travelling merchants.

Being caught would result in a horrifying lack of hands.

He had managed it though, and she needed food – he had promised her, so really, he _had_ to go to Carl. Thankfully the man accented to a small and poor quality food, so the favour should be small – perhaps just an errand.

That was when Stella had asked about the homeless, to which Noctis replied. He briefly wondered how she didn't notice them; he always did, but quickly reasoned that no one else really seemed to, so it would be expecting too much for her to notice them all as well.

He turned his gaze forward, still slightly uncomfortable at how Stella's small hand gripped his shirt lightly, as she trailed behind him. A sort of protectiveness formed within her – she continued to remind him of Lillian, of how she used to grip his shirt whenever they visited the ghetto.

A familiar man turned the corner in front of him, making Noctis freeze. That wasn't good; the man was friendly with him – but it wasn't he that he was worried for. The man who turned the corner _hated_ everything that so much as remotely _touched_ Tenebrae, much less a noblewoman. Without thinking, Noctis placed his hand on top of her head, pushing her down and to the side, so that her form was completely hidden from the man, who had yet to notice them.

Not daring to speak, Noctis looked at Stella's confused countenance, and looked to a place where she could hide, he was about to gesture for her to go there, but she already seemed to understand, and was already backing up, before hurrying to the hiding spot he had picked out previously.

Without wasting much time, Noctis walked a little forward, and slumped against the wall of home that they _would_ have passed, had _he_ not shown up. He locked his eyes forward, staring ahead at nothing in particular, and crossed his arms. He hoped that he didn't look like he was up to anything, or, if he did, that he looked like he was about to fulfil one of Carl's favours. He wasn't a good liar; really, he couldn't lie at all, so he hoped that the man simply chalked it up to nerves.

"Noctis," came the greeting – it was expected, but it still caused Noctis to jump slightly and turn his head over to the man. The man, with dull brown hair and equally dull brown eyes, had a very boring face, though he was very tall; a good three or four inches taller than Noctis himself.

The man had a scar along the side of his face, and his hair was knotted and muddy, sticking to his scalp. He needed a shave, and a bath, as well, though that could sum up every single living being in the ghetto. He had a knife on him somewhere, though Noctis didn't know where exactly and his clothes where nothing more than rags.

Again, too painfully common in the ghetto.

"Donavon." Noctis replied, swallowing nervously before looking away; he never could control his emotions, and was read like an open book – much to his chagrin. "What are you doing here?" Damn, did he sound like he was forcing himself?

"Looking for someone." Came the easy reply as the man gave him a grin and ruffled his hair. Noctis was, after all, only seventeen, and to Donavon, who was thirty-two, he _was_ still a kid. Noctis leaned away from the contact, not liking it. "What are you up to?" The man asked, hitting spot on, Noctis looked away nervously.

"Nothing," he lied, then tried to cover it up with, "nothing important – just a favour." The truth, though he hoped Donavon took it as a favour to Carl, not to some lost noblewoman – or noble girl, as she had to be younger than him…

"Ah, try not to get caught, eh? Can't have the General's son die." Donavon replied amicably, as he put Noctis in a headlock. "You sure you won't join us? Or are you going to rant about honour, like you're father?" Ah, there he was, the same old Donavon. Noctis twisted away from him with a smile. Donavon and he were hardly close, but that didn't mean that they were strangers.

Donavon was a fanatic, and completely apposed to everything from Tenebrae. It made sense, as he had lost everything during the war – something Noctis could barely remember. Now, he hardly seemed dangerous, but all those that were scared of Tenebrae, and all those that refused to be apart of any sort of rebellion, avoided him like the plague.

"As long as you know you're place, right? 'Cause it's right here," he pointed fiercely to the ground, "with us – not with those Tenebraean scum's." The man warned. He then quirked the side of his mouth up, making the warning playful; Noctis smiled slightly and nodded.

"Yeah," He muttered, before realizing that they were walking towards the alleyway. "Um, who, are you looking for?" Noctis, asked as he stepped forward, trying to deter the man's attention away from the alley. It seemed to work, after all, Donavon had complete and utter trust for his father, and a healthy load of respect too; Noctis wouldn't be suspected so easily.

"Ah," The man sighed as he leaned against the wall, next to where Noctis stood. He looked wearily out at the street. "Look at this place." He said instead, and Noctis did – he saw what he had seen nearly everyday of his life. "You probably don't even remember, huh?" He leaned back, "how amazing our home was – how full of life! Now we're stuck here – in the ghettos, cause no one has enough money to move to the slums. What a promising life – ghetto or slums, which would it be? We don' get to live with the other high classes – no, and probably won't for three generations!"

"That's how war works, isn't it? The loosing side gets the unfavourable conditions?" He muttered, true to his nature, and the nature of all those who grew up in the ghetto – those who really didn't know any better. This was how they lived; they could get mad, but they didn't know what they were getting mad over. They knew that most Tenebraeans lived far better lives than they did, and hated the injustice of it, but without any real knowledge of how they should live, their opinions were narrow.

"Yeah – but we weren't attacking. They came and invaded – charming, isn't it?"

"Right." Noctis muttered before ducking when Donavon went to ruffle his hair. Donavon succeeded regardless however, and Noctis glared indignantly, before moving out of the way. Donavon laughed, before walking away. "Who was it that you were looking for again?" He called out and waited for a reply. Donavon, who had already passed the alley, paused and looked back at him.

"You don't want to know the rebellions movements," he shrugged, raising his eyebrows and pulling an expression that read, 'sorry,' though not really meaning it. He then spun on his heel, and began to walk away. Noctis narrowed his eyes at his back. It was the same old thing; Donavon wanted Noctis' participation in the rebellion, and baited him on a regular basis.

Dark blue eyes trailed the retreating back, and once Donavon was gone from sight, Noctis glanced over to Stella, who was already emerging from her hiding spot. She looked irate, though for what, Noctis was at a loss for. He blinked at her in confusion, and after she stuck her head out, and looked both ways – probably to make sure that Donavon was gone, she rounded on him.

* * *

Stella, throughout their conversation, was unable to deduce whom it was that Noctis was conversing with. It shouldn't have been so hard – she shouldn't know him, and thus, her curiosity should abate, and she would merely hide in content.

However, a strange feeling, in the pit of her stomach, a sense of foreboding, had her at the edge of her seat, that, and coupled with the urgency that Noctis had told her to hide, Stella had a feeling that she knew the man.

The only problem was, however, that she could neither see nor hear whom her companion was talking to. It was infuriating at the least, and while Stella sat, hidden away by the rubble, she tapped her middle finger on her knee, to pass the time more than anything else.

"They came and invaded – charming, isn't it?"

The voice then was clear, or, as clear as she would be able to hear it. The sound caused her muscles to clamp up and for her palms to sweat. Her heart beat erratically; its wild pace so loud she wondered how the man couldn't hear it.

"_You know, that rebellion I was talking about?" _The same voice sounded in her mind. Stella backed up into the wall, opening her mouth to force her panicking body to breath slower – more quietly. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was _that_ man's attention. True, he wasn't one of those men who had touched her so inappropriately, but he was just as terrible.

"_You? You're going to be the price of our freedom."_ Him and his _damn_ _words_; him, and his… life! So angry was she that her thoughts were muddled behind a red haze. So angry at her own fear of him, and so angry with the person himself for causing everything that happened to her in the first place. If not for him, she wouldn't have woken up in the darkness, if it were not for him, she would not have those men… violating her.

If it weren't for him, she'd be at home.

Appreciation lost for how he had finally made her appreciate her life, for all that she saw in the man, was a fanatic who dared to use to – a person who wasn't a part of any war, nor act of violence – in their own scheme.

If she were thinking clearer, instead of wallowing in her own memories – her own, traumatising memories that she couldn't even bear to _think_ about his side of the story, about how awful _he_ was treated. There were two sides to each story, but neither side got along because of how caught up they were in _their_ own life and _their_ own experiences to listen.

Even then, pride was and always will be humanities downfall.

"_Sleep well, your Majesty."_ His ghastly voice echoed in her ear, taunting her. She heard the man clearer – so clear she forced herself to look. He stood, seemingly engaged in conversation. She took in his face, his clothes – noting that they were identical to the ones he wore when he kidnapped her, though not thinking on it much, besides the small afterthought that he looked _exactly_ the same to when he had kidnapped her.

It was like he was mocking her.

Still, she didn't _dare_ move, didn't dare speak; she barely dared to breath, as it were. He paved a spot on her psyche that labelled him as 'dangerous' and thus, should be feared; he was the start of everything, after all.

When he disappeared from her site, she slowly emerged from her hiding spot, her eyes darting to the corner where she had last seen the man she loathed so – a specific man she used as a martyr for every wrong thing that happened so far.

Noctis' eyes glanced to her, and he didn't look to be urging her back, so she took it as a sign that she was in the clear.

Unless, of course, the martyr had managed to convinced her companion into giving her up. Stella couldn't help but feel slightly betrayed. She reasoned with herself that it was only a possibility; she didn't know Noctis enough so make such a judgement.

Perhaps her hormones were out of order, or the stress from everything finally catching up with her, but when she reached him, quickly checking to make sure that the martyr was gone, before rounding on him accusation on her tongue.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for incredibly long delay. However, to be perfectly fair, I had a lot of school work to do and worry about, not to mention my birthday and Christmas to be excited about. So, here's the first chapter of _Plague On All Your Houses _for the year 2011! Happy New Year Everyone! Please read and review.


	9. Chapter IX

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter: IX

* * *

DONAVON was an odd man, too unpredictable to be a suitable ally, but dangerous enough to make an unwanted enemy. He had a scar that ran along the side of his face, a tribute to a battle long past – further past than the takeover of his home. Though he had scars from those as well – no question about that.

His scars told the story of his life, told of his experiences, and explained his actions easily. While Stella hated the man to his very core, many others loved him – albeit they also feared him, but his words sang with truth, and they all wanted retribution.

His goal was simple. He wanted his people to be given back what had been taken from them. That included their land, their freedom, their dignity, and their wealth. He wanted everything that had been taken from them; their culture, their way of life – everything. However, he wasn't naïve; getting everything he wanted would be impossible. He would, however, would settle for the return of their culture, and an allowance into the Tenebraen society.

Though, he couldn't deny that the thought of the rebirth of their home country was tempting – who knows? Once – if – they made their way into their takeover's society, _then_ they might be able to come up with an army large enough to seize what was rightfully theirs.

He glanced along the streets, not really expecting to find the princess, but knowing that royalty had next to nothing in survival skills; they were all pampered. Pampered and spoilt – that girl wouldn't last more than a week in this place; not without help.

He almost smirked at that, and could feel the slight tug at his lips – like anyone would help her if they knew she was the only daughter of their most hated enemy. She was probably already demanding and ordering others to take her back home, for she was the 'princess of Tenebrae', and demanded respect and total submission.

He frowned then – if someone was stupid enough to kill her, then what would he do? He supposed he could play it so that it seemed as if she were still alive, though that might be hard. Some of the inhabitants of the ghettos had personally went through torture treatments courtesy of the king's own experts and his seal. They wouldn't take to kindly to having the daughter of such a man under their noses.

So, he didn't _really_ look too hard, and instead asked if anyone saw a noble woman around. Many of them shook their heads, to his confusion. Why would someone wearing such expensive clothing go by unnoticed? The only thought that came to mind was if her clothing were ripped and torn, and possible covered in mud…

He cursed, before spinning on his heel and heading back towards the boys who were in charge of guarding her. They had left something out – something big.

He was not a man you lied to.

He stormed down the street, his irritation evident. If palpable, it would crackle in the air, snapping like static electricity, sending hairs on ends and jolting other unawares.

His mind was a foggy mess; if they _had_ done what he suspected, not only would she hide from _everyone_ here, but also finding her would be considerable _harder_ to do. If he couldn't find her his entire plan would be a mess – months of planning down the drain.

How could one girl cause so much trouble?

He growled as he reached the door to where she had been hidden, and kicked the door in, the wooden plank used flew inwards in testament to his rage. He stormed in; his gaze landing on a startled man with white whiskers, and almost silver flowing hair. His aged face told volumes, but could not be read, his blue eyes cunning and sharp. Donavon hesitated.

"Oh, um, sorry, Wellington – I didn't realize," He stuttered out, ducking his head in embarrassment at the man – no, it wasn't just _any_ man; this man was the man that demanded respect – the only surviving strategist of their army.

"It's quite alright; I don't know exactly know what your rush is though." He muttered before returning his gaze to the wall, staring at it listlessly – his mind deep in thought. Donavon hesitated once more, accurately aware of how young he felt to the elder, and not quite certain whether he should ask or wait until the man asked him first.

It turned out that he didn't have to wait, or even finish wondering, for the man, Nathaniel Wellington, master strategist of their army, spoke. "What do you want? It's rather annoying, you know, having you stand there, twitching." Donavon felt a slight flare of annoyance for the man at the insult, but wasn't about to call the man on it – after all, Wellington _was_ a key factor in the rebellion.

"My men – the ones stationed here-"

"I know, I know," Wellington waved his hand dismissively. "They bribed me to stall you – or dissuade you, I'm not sure which." He mused, a small smile on his face as he tapped his chin in contemplation. "It's probably the latter – I can't imagine why they would tell me their story otherwise. Strange though – I can't actually remember them telling me that." He sighed heavily, looking longingly at the wall, as Donavon surreptitiously followed the man's gaze, seeing nothing. "Old age. Such a terrible thing." He muttered wistfully.

"Sir?"

"I remember when Clara and I first met; she was drawing and I bumped into her. I had never seen a lady so cross in my life; rather endearing, I'll have you know. How's Noctis – Donavon? He well?" Donavon blinked at the sudden turn in conversation, before noticing the humour in the old man's eyes.

He was joking.

Hiding whatever annoyance he felt he grit his teeth and replied, "Noctis is fine, sir. Where did my men go?" He clipped, irritation shrouding his admiration.

Wellington smiled in good humour, before turning his head away. "They wanted me to say – I think they do, though I'm still not sure-"

"_Sir._"

"Yes, yes," he waved dismissively, "they didn't rape her, our new corpse friend stopped them, took her outside to move her and then… dead. I suppose. I do admire her courage – or how she deals with things; sort of refreshing."

"She killed one of us! Her father murdered many more!" Donavon spat out.

"Yes, yes! Though Clara always told me that we had it coming – after all, how long did you think we would be able to get away with it? Good times, though – boy, did we have a laugh!" He shook with laughter, though Donavon knew him well enough to know him when he was being dramatic in his actions.

That was the last straw. The old man, though he respected him a great deal, had pushed it too far. It was no secret that while Wellington was a part of the rebellion, he had to be constantly cajoled into helping them, bribed and complimented. Not that Wellington had any love for their enemy; rather, he looked upon it as work after retirement.

"If she makes it back home, we're done for. Don't you understand that?" He asked tersely, before stepping up to the old man, so that he towered over him. "Our people, and everything that we're fighting for right now will be destroyed!" He yelled, his breathing heavy as he glared at the man. Silence reigned, only to be broken by Wellington's heavy breath.

"What can I do about it? I can't strategize on how to get her back, for she's an unknown factor. She's desperate enough to kill, despite never doing it before, and if one of our people here are helping her out then she's nearly home free."

"None of us would _ever_ help out a Tenebraean." Donavon insisted, growling out the last word.

"That's where you're wrong. Many would help her out. Imagine it, you just saved the king's daughter, you can finally escape this hellhole; give your children _food_ and _medicine_. You'd have proven your loyalty to Tenebrae, and would be welcomed as a hero, or, another factor, since some of the people around here have the largest hearts I've ever met, they might help her without knowing who she is." The man grumbled, his carefree nature vanishing as he hypothesized. He broke off into thought, before shrugging. "Just split up and search everywhere, get everyone in on it, though I doubt it'll do much good. She's probably just as muddy as we are, and people around here have a tendency to ignore each other, out of respect. Pride."

Donavon knew he was right. The man was always very insightful, despite his quirks. "Perhaps." He allowed, and, with a heaving sigh, he rested against the wall opposite Wellington. "Noctis still won't join us."

"Of course not. He hates his own people too, just not as much as Tenebrae." This, to Donavon, was news. Surprised, he brought his full attention to Wellington.

"What?"

"Hmm? Oh, you don't know, do you? He killed quite a few people, most of them from his own country. People driven by rage, rage that his father couldn't do anything to stop it, or simply because the boy is more crafty and therefore has more than them. Last I heard five died when they tried to attack him, but that's not the reason."

"Then what is?"

Wellington sighed wearily; he was getting far to old. "He had a friend, don't know who, but he did tell me that they deserved to die for hurting her. They were in our rebellion, the ones who did it. He killed them and that's that. He won't join."

Donavon pondered this, wondering how he could use the information he was given. Noctis would be a huge asset to have for morale. He was the son of a great general, nephew of the king, and talented in combat as well. Noctis was unanimously chosen to rule the new kingdom. He was, after all, the only surviving relative of the former monarchy.

"I'd say nothing of this to him." Wellington advised, his words serious and commanding. "He stays with us because of a sense of duty, but really he would prefer to have nothing to do with us at all. Push him too far and he might disappear."

"You think he can?"

"Yes," Wellington gave a dry laugh, "like a ghost, just like his father could."

* * *

The royal palace: a beautiful structure of creamy white stones and dark blue and gold tapestries, handing from windows with the royal families crest sewn in. It sat seaside, on a high hill, out looking a large, steep cliff that led down to the vast, breathtaking ocean.

Waves crashed against the rocky precipice in white caps, the salty air hanging lightly, the cool breeze gentle and caressing. There were no otherworldly signs of distress; in fact, it looked to be yet another halcyon day, if it weren't for the mess of human uproar that went on inside the castle's stone walls.

Maids scurried, though that was normal, however the amount of guests that only recently arrived had doubled for them, and with the extra people they had to wait on, their lives were decidedly hectic. They rushed from one end to the other, cleaning, cooking and serving.

The worst part of it was that while it was normal for royalty and nobles to ignore them they now were being yelled at and insulted – enough was enough.

The footmen and butlers and all the maids' counterparts were helpless to help them, as they too were being criticized. Really, such behaviour was unforgivable! The only thing that appeased the maids somewhat was the fact that the _princess_ was the reason – because she had been abducted.

One maid waited patiently as the King ate his breakfast in a sulk. His third wife sitting quietly next to him, "How's the search going?" She asked politely. The King paused in his movement, his hand stilling, still holding his silver spoon. The creamy broth steamed, flowing into his face, as the King frowned.

"They're scouring the ghettos." He said instead of answering, and brought the spoon to his lips, and swallowing the hot broth. He swallowed, and repeated the process with such a calm that his third wife, so skittish and fearful of silences swallowed nervously and picked up her silver spoon with a shaky hand, before eating her breakfast as well.

The door swung open, snapping, breaking the heavy silence with its abruptness and urgency. The third wife's head snapped up, her light brown hair falling in disarray at the quick action, her dark brown eyes searching the newcomer with open curiosity and concern.

"Yes?" She asked politely as she stared at the King's second child. "Any news?" She expected it when the boy completely ignored her, but that didn't make it hurt any less – especially since it was him – and he immediately turned his attention to his father, who gave him his rapt attention.

"Well; spit it out boy." He ordered, and his son nodded.

"We apprehended a suspect – we believe him to be a part of the rebellion group." He said hastily. "Leif is with him at the moment; he told me to inform you immediately." The King nodded, and the son nodded back, his breathing slightly erratic; he must have run straight from the dungeons. His father stood up and swept by him, heading towards the dungeons without a moments hesitation. His footsteps thundered down the hall, before fading away.

"I… have never seen him so worried before." The King's third wife, Queen Aurora, told him quietly. The prince looked at her, worry still etched deeply into his face. He took in her youthful countenance, her long, brown hair, dark eyes, and a soft face. He swallowed, before nodding.

Why did she have to be so young?

He berated himself, yelling at himself; just because the Queen was near his age, did not mean that it was appropriate – she was married, and to his _father_ of all people. That, and his sister was still missing; really there was no time to be thinking of how soft or how beautiful she looked.

"Yes, well…" He trailed off, not exactly knowing what to say. She looked at him expectantly. "He has; when Queen Sidra fell ill – and my mother as well, though I can't really remember it…" He then looked at the door that he had come from. "I, um, well, I better get going, Queen-"

"Call me Aurora." She inputted gently, silencing the prince's stuttering. "You should go," She nodded to the door, "before Leif and my… husband… wonder where you are." She smiled at him, so small a smile that it seemed even more precious. The prince nodded, before bowing slightly in farewell, and turning away, his gait purposeful, though his urgency was mostly due to the blooming blush on his cheeks.

The Queen looked away sadly at the boy, who was probably only a year or so younger than she with a small smile on her face. She tried his name on her lips, and smiled slightly, before once again turning her attention to her breakfast.

The rest was in blissful silence.

"Father," The crown prince, Leif of Tenebrae, called out to gain his father's attention. The King immediately headed to him, and stood beside his son.

Leif gestured to the cell, nodding towards a man huddled in the corner, clothed in rags and whose limbs were bone-thin. The King glared at the prisoner, before turning his cold gaze to his first son. "Has he told you anything about their plans?" He asked, making Leif stare coldly back. His father… the first thing that came out of his mouth was not a concern about _Stella_ but rather the rebellion's plans.

Of course, some would argue that he was being a good king…

Leif _knew_ better.

"He only mutters directions to places." Leif answered, "He hasn't released any information past that."

"Then loosen his tongue more! He has my daughter! He knows the rebellions plans! Find them!" He yelled out, making Leif clench his fists and jaw.

"Father, the chances that he's actually a part of the rebellion are slim," He started, before something dawned on him, "Their chances of doing any permanent damage is also unlikely…" He noted, and then gauged his father's reaction.

The king clammed up, and then stared coolly down at his son, silently warning him not to utter another syllable. Leif nodded, showing he understood, though his mind was inwardly reeling. Logic and self-preservation made him keep his mouth shut, for while the king wouldn't dare to anything to his first-born son, or any of his children, he would definitely cut some of their freedoms and liberties.

"Make sure he confesses _everything_. I want to know everything he does!" The king bellowed, the stress and worry making him snap. Leif watched as he stalked away, leaving the dreary dungeons. He heard footsteps coming down, and looked up to see his younger brother looking curiously at the departure of their father.

"You really need to learn to soften big news like that." His brother told him, his gaze sliding away from the steps and towards Leif. "He doesn't like it when things don't go his way, you know."

"I couldn't just stand there and agree with him. Our guards arrested this man because of 'suspicious' behaviour', but with their judgement, it doesn't mean much. I wasn't about to lie, and then have some innocent person subjected to torture." Leif explained, before leaning against the bars and staring intently at the prisoner.

"Ever think that father shouldn't have taken it over?" His brother asked, as he leaned wearily against the stone wall.

"No."

His brother laughed. "You're odd, you know that? You sympathize with the prisoner, but you don't regret the initial action that started all this mess!"

"And you're the one with an infatuation with father's _wife_. Don't chastise me on being odd." Leif shot back, before throwing his head back in exasperation. He missed the prominent blush on the other's cheeks, but before his brother could deny it, he continued. "I don't really know what to think; sometimes father's a great king, others I can't stand his methods. I'm not sure if I want to be like him, or if I want to be the furthest thing away." He sighed; his brother was always the best listener. "He always had a soft spot for Stella, but he's using her abduction to further annihilate them. He loved Queen Sidra, but didn't even attend her funeral!"

"Quite a conundrum, isn't he?" His brother whispered back. Leif growled, before shaking his head, and calling for the guards – the prisoner needed his tongue loosened, by the king's command.

* * *

A/N: Okay, yes, neither Noctis nor Stella are in this chapter - directly, anyway, but I needed to put in the backstory. Anyway, hope you enjoy! Oh, and before I forget, PLEASE PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE **REVIEW! **They make my day, all of them, and are what makes posting these stories worth while. Otherwise I loose heart and will to continue to update.


	10. Chapter X

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter X

* * *

"How do you know him?" She demanded hotly, all reason and manners aside, she was scared, and when humans were scared, anger was the easiest way to regain a form of confidence. Stella knew this, knew it too well; she had had _enough_ of being scared, had enough of being frightened, emotions upon emotions, welling up, built like bricks made of mud, and only now it was raining, washing away every fortitude she had.

Her fear made her angry, and at the moment the only person to take it out on was Noctis.

So take it out on him she did.

He took a half-step back, before staring down at her with an expression something akin to disappointment. It made her hesitate slightly, her hand and will wavering, but the memory was too fresh, the fear still a poison in her blood, and so she hunkered down, and steeled herself.

"Well?" She asked, finding his silence slightly unnerving. He stared down at her; his eyes narrowed at her, before he suddenly grabbed her forearm, causing her to flinch.

"What does it matter if I know him or not?" He asked her, rather harshly, before looking at her intently, and then sighing. He released her quickly, noting how she had tensed up and stared at his hands in near horror. "I'm sorry." He mumbled, before he turned and nodded to the street in general. "We should get going." He told her, but she wasn't done, not yet. He had talked casually with _him_. From the corner of his eye he saw this, saw how she was barely restraining her anger, her fear, in most cases. He couldn't blame her, not really, so he settled with pacifying her. "Yell at me later." He almost winced at that – he did sound rather dismissive.

Stella held herself as she followed him, no longer trusting him, and her distance showed it. She glared at his back, but she was so consumed with her emotions that she didn't notice when he stopped suddenly, as if he realised something just then, and then grabbed her on the arm tightly, dragging her into another alleyway. He threw her harshly against the wall, and pinned her there, before glaring down at her.

She opened her mouth to scream, but his hand clamped down her mouth before she could. Ghostly hands crawled all over her body, and his proximity caused her heart to palpitate at dangerous levels. She tried to struggle, but Noctis was stronger than he looked – far stronger. He held her correctly, using his body weight and larger build to dominate over her.

"How do _you_ know him?" He asked intently, seeming to be far angrier than he had when she snapped at him. Under his weight, Stella froze, her muscles tensing. Noctis stared down at her, looking intently at her eyes as they gazed off into a memory. Slowly, he released her, removing himself from her body and giving her respectable distance. She still seemed out of it, but she definitely noticed his departure, because her body relaxed slightly, and curled inward. "Stella?"

"He kidnapped me." She breathed a broken whisper. "I, I just wanted to find out why the guards were so edgy, and went to the stables to find Leon, but he… he was there, and he started talking about a rebellion, on how I was their key to winning it." Her tone turned harsh, as she spat the ending, before her gaze flickered back to him. Her body felt numb now, the adrenaline leaving, though she did not know why. Her mind furiously tried to explain why, why she told him, and then, it gave her its answer.

He had scared her, terrified her so badly that her body clammed up, every defence she had on high alert. Adrenaline pumped through her at astonishing levels. And then, he left, his presence was gone, and the ghostly hands left with him. However, a seed of fear remained.

If she didn't answer he would do it again.

"That's why?" He asked, dragging Stella's attention back to him. "You're here… you're…" He swallowed, and seemed very tense, though Stella couldn't comprehend why. He backed up slightly, his fist curling together, "He," He cut himself off, before he finally hit the opposite wall by swinging his arm outwards, "Your," He cut himself off again, much to Stella's confusion and curiosity. She remained rooted where she was, as she watched him run his hands through his hair in distress.

He worked his mouth, but with no sound coming through, she didn't exactly understand what he was trying to get at. He finally decided upon closing it, only for his jaw to tense until she was certain, even from where she was, she could hear his teeth grind unnaturally.

He was scaring her again.

Noctis' face clammed up then, and he seemed to loose emotion completely. To be perfectly honest, this frightened Stella more than his small breakdown. Now she didn't know what he was thinking, what he was planning.

Whether she should run or not.

"I'm sorry. Just some bad… _memories_." He said through slightly gritted teeth, before slowly – forcefully – relaxing himself. "We… should get going."

Now she was faced with something she didn't want to be faced with. She couldn't trust him, she had known that before but now it seemed to be even more apparent. However, she was still left with a choice; he was still willing to lead her, to where, she now did not know, but still, he was willing to help her.

"I can't trust you."

He paused at that, and she noticed how he minutely tensed, but it was just noticeable. "I… suppose you can't, but its not like you have your pick of options," he hesitated, as if he didn't want to say what he was about to say, "I won't ask who you are, though you have to realise, that I hate the royal family as much as anyone else here."

She nodded, unable to say a word. Thinking back on what she had said, she did note that while she insinuated it, she didn't directly say anything about her heritage. That made her almost sigh in relief, or, it would have, were it not for the pressure that had suddenly weighed upon her stomach.

He hated her family, and by extension, her. It brought with it the wonder of what he actually would do, had he known. It made her question everything he did, his kindness, and his aid. Then her thoughts turned to emotions, and she found she didn't want to question those things – not at all, actually.

Before she knew it, she had grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving, stopping him from making her decision faster. He allowed it, though she noticed how he tensed under her light grip, as if he didn't want it there. Well, she thought, too bad.

She had enough of being scared. She had enough of being hurt and terrified, and as long as no one touched her – inappropriately, at least – she was going to be brave, face her problems head on, understand the situation before she decided. Like she used to, before her decisions dwindled down to startling low amounts. Now, it was time to take a different approach, rather than anger, since it seemed to have dissipated rather easily.

In her opinion, almost _too_ easily.

"Hypothetically," she started, knowing he guessed but wasn't planning on confirming anything. No, not that question, another would work better. "Noctis, I mean," no, not that either. Already, she seemed to be failing at this. "What is _your _reason?"

He glanced at her from the side, and she was able to see almost a longing – sadness not from grief, but from yearning.

"Same as everyone else's here. They took everything." The voice was tight, the tone was off, and she got the feeling he was lying, but he had no reason to lie, so it must have just been her imagination. She looked down, towards her feet, her legs, her tattered dress. "We better get going before it gets dark. Otherwise we'll both have to sleep outside."

He pulled back, and her hand fell, limp, only for it to be caught in his. She tensed slightly, but it seemed innocent enough – or, at least, it didn't seem threatening – so she allowed it, and allowed him to pull her back on the busy street lightly, pulling her up beside him, and then, attempted to let go.

She gripped his hand tightly in response. He paused, hesitating, but allowed it, all the while, trying to shake some other _memories_ away.

Because that was all they were, memories.

"_You're a funny boy." The young girl had said, swinging her legs, back and forth in an irregular pattern. She was sitting on the edge of an old rock wall, which was crumbling and green from age and pollution. "I didn't steal from you, you know, so you don't have to follow me." _

"_I'm a boy? You're just a little kid." He muttered back, but sat next to her all the same. She turned her head towards him, before smiling very brightly at him. _

"_Aye, I am! I turn nine next week!" She said to him, before laughing, odd as it was, and leaning until she fell, her back hitting the mud without any complaint from her. "Say, funny boy, what's your name? I bet it isn't as neat as mine! Lillian, Lillian, I love you!" She began to sing, before laughing wildly. _

"_It's Noctis." _

"_That's a neatio name!" She gasped dramatically. "Too bad you're too much of an old man for me to marry! You probably already have a kid, huh?" _

"_What?" He asked sharply, before swinging his arm out to swat her across the head. "I'm not that old at all! Holy, fourteen – I'm _fourteen_. That's not old at all. Actually, I seem to constantly get how young I am." He told her, realising belatedly how he sounded too proud of the fact. A giggle brought his attention down to Lillian, who was stifling her laughter behind a dirty hand. _

"_Good for you, boy."_

"_Shut up," He grumbled, and she laughed even more, causing the sides of his own mouth to turn up slightly in response. _

_Damn. Her. _

_He joined in her laughter._

_

* * *

_

The King's second son cursed under his breath, as he watched the scene in front of him. He didn't seem to be able to look away, but he supposed that was normal. A quick glance in his peripheral vision told him Leif hadn't looked away, either.

The prisoner's tongue had definitely loosened, though no discernible words could be deciphered.

It was a horrible sight; the prisoner. He had effectively been stripped of all but a small amount of dignity, wearing nothing more than a ragged loin cloth. His skin was dirty and bruised, with several abrasions that littered it and crossed here and there. The man's back was a bloody mess, from where the leather whips had beat him near relentlessly, and at the moment, his skin was blistering.

Funny that, they blistered exactly where the torturer placed the red-hot iron. Oh, and fancy that, the man's screams echoed twice as loud and thrice as tortured whenever the hot rod touched his skin.

"Cy," Leif called his name, "You don't have to be here. Go see Aurora; you'd like that."

The torturer had now taken from pressing the hot iron from against the prisoner's thigh to waving it around threatening, allowing the man to speak, but all that escaped the broken man's lips were apologies and pleads for mercy.

"How can I see her when I know this is going on? This man knows nothing; no one can endure that sort of pain for this long without saying at least _something_." He jerked his head towards his brother, sending a glare at him. "Tell him off. Or, I swear-"

"I can't do that. King's orders."

"You're going to be the _next_ King, don't you have say?" Cy asked, horrified, before turning his savage glare from his brother to the stone floor. "He's going to die."

"Yes." Leif agreed, all too easily, in Cy's opinion, and it made him tense up, before growling under his breath and storming out. It was no use; Leif wouldn't go against a direct order of their father and their father would rather roll over, dead, than spare that man's life.

His feet took him up the stairs, away from the dungeons, faster than he anticipated, and faster still, they took him to a room that he really, really shouldn't be. Ever; being here meant temptation beyond what was necessary.

He forced his fee to a stop, before they could reach the apartment that the Queen resided. What was he doing? He couldn't… he couldn't see her. She wasn't his to see, and even still, from what he heard, she hardly spent time in her apartment, much less her chamber.

Oh, but how he wanted her there.

He clenched his hands into fists, feeling foolish that his lust for her had reached such peaks – for that was what it was; lust. She was beautiful, beyond beautiful, soft-spoken, and actually rather carefree, when not in his father's presence. He bit his lip; forcing the impure thoughts from his mind – thoughts of her, in ways he most definitely _had not_ seen her before.

His mind was very helpful in filling in the blanks.

For instance, how swollen he could imagine her lips could be, or how hazy and seductive her eyes could look, hazy with euphoria, or how that long, dark hair would look, all mussed up and knotted, how it would feel, having his fingers knotted-

He growled a low, animalistic sound, before dragging a heavy hand through his hair and grasping a fistful of strands, pulling on them until he felt the sharp stab of pain. He breathed in through his mouth, and out through his nose, hoping that there was nothing _else_ that could give away his… flustered state.

That was wishful thinking, but he didn't look to make sure.

With a curse, louder than was appropriate, he forced his feet to turn around, away from the temptation, away from her bed, away from where he could imagine _she_ would be. Away from all of that, and away from the implications of what would happen if he just… lost control.

It would be so easy to, to loose control, because his lived off of impulse. He was a person who had next to no respect for the rules, and even less for conduct, and his thoughts were definitely not of conduct. After all, it was hardly appropriate to lust after a married woman; that woman being married to his father – the _King _ – no less.

When had it started, anyway? Somewhere in the year his father had been married to her, he had fallen in this state of _need_. He wasn't quite certain. From the first moment he met her, wandering in the gardens, he supposed, he had taken a fancy to the beautifully elegant woman. Then, of course, he found out the reasons he politely turned down his advances was because – lucky him – she was his new stepmother.

That sounded so _wrong_.

There were so many things _wrong_ with his feelings, but he supposed he could only count his blessings that it was more lust than love that afflicted him so. Still, he could quite literally be executed for this, son of the King or no. His father didn't like to share; in fact, he quite vividly remembered when a foolish man (who wasn't of the court, but Cy couldn't remember why the man was in the castle) had dared to court Queen Sidra.

The man's hanging had taken place that night.

He flew past one hallway down another. His emotions were far too out of control. They went from horror and disgust to undeniable lust and now worry.

She had a sweet voice.

He shut down that train of thought before it could even reach how her voice would sound if she were to moan-

He cursed, again, this time stopping and slamming his body against the wall. With a hand he pinched his nose, then rubbed his eyes harshly. He needed to calm down. This was what happened when something sent them out of control; they became haywire. One erratic emotion would turn into another, and his mind would be on far too much adrenaline to slow down enough to effectively push the thoughts away.

"Cy?" He froze, hearing her sweet, beautiful voice from even on the other end of the hall. He didn't know how she saw him; he had entered a hallway that hadn't been lit for the night yet.

Her light footsteps announced she was approaching, and as much as he knew he had to tell her it was alright or to stay away from him, another part of him wanted her closer, wanted her body closer, as close as it could get, to feel her, to touch her.

He had gotten out of this type of situation before, but now, now it was dark, and there was no one around, and he was still in her apartment and there should be _no one_ wandering the halls and damn it if it wasn't a huge test of his non-existent patience and willpower to just _stand there_ rather than force her against a wall. He gasped, almost as if he would have had to if he had spoken that thought, rather than thought it.

"You wanted to see me." No question, a statement. Of course he would have wanted to see her, if he had gone as far as to find her chambers. He couldn't quite speak yet, since he was too busy clenching his jaw until he could hear the teeth within grind.

"Aurora." He more gasped than said. He winced, realizing how breathy he sounded, and she had to even touch him yet! He was going to hell, courtesy of his father, King and owner of his obsession. He saw her, from the corner of her eyes; she was watching him intently, her eyes roving around his body, and a part of him hoped she saw his arousal, saw what she was doing to him. "Please… leave."

But God, if only he could have her, just for one night, then he would welcome hell with open arms.

Of course, if he could have her until his obsession ended, he would be much happier-

"Kiss me."

He froze, his breathing stopped, and he forced himself to look over at her, not quite believing she had actually said what he thought she did. She wouldn't – couldn't. But, from the dark look in her eye, and steady gaze, how her mouth was just slightly open, oh, _God_.

_She better have actually meant it. _

His arm jutted out before he could realise what it was doing, and grabbed her upper arm, his body following suit. He pushed her into the wall, her body hitting it and she gasped slightly at the impact. Her breathing got heavier, and when she looked up at him, those dark eyes through her lashes, he couldn't help it.

He kissed her, fiercely, punishment both divine and mortal be dammed.

* * *

He bolted upwards, coughing, in a cold sweat, panting and looking frantically around his room.

It was dark, the only light pouring in from the two large windows to his left, letting in a cold blue light. The doors to the balcony were closed shut, but even with that so, he could hear the faint crash of the ocean waves against the cliff. It was so familiar, but what he had just dreamt was most certainly _wasn't_. Never before had he had an actual dream of her, and it left him swallowing hard. That, of course, brought his mind down to another part of him that was hard, but he could ignore it for the time being.

He had just had a very, _very_ intimate dream about the _Queen_. The only thing that made it worse, was that the beginning of the dream - excluding his brother's mention of him seeing Aurora (like Leif would ever call her by just her name) and his mention of her - actually happened. It was so easy to try and believe that instead of going straight to his bedchambers and falling into a fitful sleep, what transpired in his dream actually happened.

He really wished it did.

"I," he breathed out into the silence of his chambers, "am so..." So what? Dead? Screwed? Dammed? Either one worked, because as time went on, it was getting harder and harder to deal with these feelings. It was getting harder and harder to deny her appeal to him, harder to deny her power over him, harder to deny his _want. _She, Aurora, wife of his father, and by all means, his.. _step-mother_... she... had a power over him that made every other woman... girl... lady... whichever - seem pale in comparison. Leif would scold him for such insubordinate feelings, before warning him that his father would not _accept _it, and definitely _would not_ share.

Sharing, like hell that was what he wanted.

With another groan, he hit his hand against his forehead, cursing himself under his breath. He had to stop, stop before it got out of control, stop thinking about her, and definitely stop _feeling_ about her. She was no one, a woman he met over a year ago, that was all. She... was nobody to him.

"I am so..." Again, the amount of vocabulary that would appropriately fit the end of that sentence eluded him, simply because he was _all_ of them.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so, just to clarify, the ending is actually very important to the story-line, and you'll all see later on, and as for the part with Noctis and Stella, I hope that conversation didn't seem awkward, or if it did, the awkwardness was merely a tribute to their personalities? In plain english, I guess, I just hope that you like this chapter, because while I have many insecurities about it (what did you think about Cy (THE SHOTGUN GUY - hehe) and his ... uh... infatuation with the Queen? I hope it doesn't sound stupid, since its the first time I've written like that. Oh, and that's important guys, because it depends on how I may eventually write Stella and Noctis. So, Um, basically **I would very much like you to give me some feedback **about this chapter. As it is up for modifications. _


	11. Chapter XI

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter XI

* * *

Her hand was so different than Lillian's. Lillian's were hard with calluses and worn from work and building. Lillian's were always similar to his, the only difference were their sizes. With hers… with Stella's, it was completely different. Her hands were soft and delicate, and underneath the dirt, he imagined that they could feel as soft as a flower petal.

His other hand, the one that wasn't holding hers, clenched into a fist, before tightening until he could feel his nails bite harshly into his skin. Her hands were soft because she didn't understand the horrors of living in the ghetto or the slums. She didn't understand how your hands hardened from work, from building your pathetic excuse of a home from scratch and scourging. Lillian, she knew, all too well – _far_ too well. He never met someone he admired more than her…

She was dead because of the resistance, and the resistance was formed because of _this_ girl's _father_.

He pushed it aside, shoving into the depths of his tattered heart. Hardship after hardship, but he wouldn't delude himself into thinking that there were others who didn't have it worse than him. A child who was forced to watch as his parents were butchered in front of him, his mother raped, then smuggled out, and sold into slavery – or perhaps a girl, who had no family to begin with, no happiness to rip away, was suddenly thrown into a brothel and forced to work for meagre pennies – all the while being more raped than selling her body.

Those were the types who had it worse than him.

_Lillian_ had it worse than him, far worse, and yet she smiled. Noctis frowned, his gaze drifting to the ground. She was so carefree, so cheerful, that is, of course, until _they_ put their hands on her, until they touched her, ruined her, wiped her smile away and shoved tears in her eyes.

She suddenly pulled on his hand, jerking Noctis from his destructive thoughts and back towards Stella. She was looking meekly towards the ground, before snapping her head back up towards him. "I," She hesitated, "I need to… relieve myself."

This was… an awkward situation.

He sighed, before pulling into another alleyway. Most people had a form of modesty, though there was some that would urinate on the main 'street' regardless of who was watching. If they did, you learned to look away and to avoid corners. But then again, it didn't really matter, now did it? Her now? Well, it was slightly humorous, but it wasn't enough for him to forget the damaging news he just pieced together.

Lillian… the little girl who tried to stitch together his cold and empty heart, only to end up being the reason that it shredded into so many pieces that he wasn't sure where they all were. He hated his country, hated what it had become, and hated hers, her family, her father… for putting his country's people into the predicament.

Humanity… was corrupt.

He was corrupt. He was treacherous, hateful and spiteful. He killed, and found it was so disgustingly easy to do. There was no emotional turmoil, there was no shaking, he killed them…

And he hadn't been satisfied.

_Watching the small flame of the candle in front of him with rapt attention, he let his mind wander. The fire flickered, nearly extinguished, and then burned with nearly twice the intensity. There was a rumour that a merchant from a different country was going to be smuggling his goods into a Tenebrae, using the slums and ghetto to get away from the restrictions and taxes. He already pinpointed the most likely route that the merchant would take; all he had to do was wait until Lillian got home to tell her of his plan. _

_She was taking longer than she should have, long enough for the candle to burn down into a stub. He knew he should blow it out, but the darkness was such a welcoming thing. He was afraid that, even at the ripe age of sixteen, the stresses of the day would wear down on him and slid his eyes shut and close his consciousness behind iron bars. Already his eyes were drooping, but Lillian was never late in going home, and he knew – very accurately – if she didn't come home…_

_Then she was dead. _

_They had promised each other, swore it upon their mother's graves and on her eleventh birthday, not months ago, that no matter what, if they could, they would go home to the small shack that they had built together. After all, what else would orphans do other than ban together? The others didn't have room, and even then Lillian didn't like sleeping around them, not with their sexual escapades, at least. _

"_Noctis." A soft voice broke through the silence, and jerked Noctis out of his reverie. He leaned upwards, using his arm as an anchor, and turned to look at her from where he lay. _

_She never looked older. _

_Her hair was ruffled and her lips were bruised and bitten. She had a large, ugly contusion covering the majority of the left side of her face, and she held herself… awkwardly. As if something hurt, as if she was trying to shield herself from the world but bear herself to him. Her hands were gripped into fists so tight that her knuckles were white, and she clutched her dress to her chest, where even from where he was he could see the tears in the sleeves. _

_She was shaking, she was bleeding, and she wasn't smiling. _

"_You stayed up." She whispered, before shuffling her feet to where her bed was, then, slowly, painfully, she sunk to her knees, and, without relinquishing her hold on her dress, she fell over, onto her straw bed, painfully. She winced, but her eyes showed now pain…_

_They showed nothing. "Lillian?" He asked, confused and worried and not comprehending at all, but, at the same time, understanding perfectly and in shock because of it. He wanted to ask to many things, so many. He wanted to ask and ask and hurt whoever did that do her, whoever took her smile away. _

_He was the broken one, dammit. _

"_I'm glad you stayed up for me." She whispered, and tried to smile, but it was twisted and broken. Then, without a word, she turned around, her back facing him, and curled into a small ball. _

_On her back were bruises, her dress was shredded, and distinctly, even in the dim light, he could see them. There, on the back of her neck, on the side that wasn't covered by her curly blonde hair, were marks of hell – of sin, of hatred and pain. They made his skin boil, and his heart break at the same time. _

_Four sets of bite-marks, each more angry and deeper than the last. _

He gestured to the spot he found, and she nodded, quickly fleeing to her designated spot. He backed away, having no interest in what was to be found there, and took the time to pinch the bridge of his nose, scowling deeply.

Her father was the cause of everything. He hated the man, loathed him, and the intensity of the pain and hatred surprised him. It was deep, like a sword plunging from his gut to between his shoulder blades, slicing though his stomach, heart and lungs all at the same time. His gut wrenched, his heart constricted, and he found that breathing was a labour.

If… he killed her, the princess of Tenebrae, would the King feel the same misery he had? Would the king feel the loss he had, the loss that started the moment Lillian said his name that night? Would he feel lost and hopeless, like his innards fell out and his feet were dangling all while his heart was ripping apart? He hoped he would. He hoped the man would rot in hell.

What did Stella know of the hardships of the people her father subjugated? Did she even know they existed before her kidnapping? Was she told since birth what a disgusting people they were? He didn't doubt it. He didn't doubt that she had not a care in the world before she came here. She was probably honoured by her father, loved and cherished.

What if she was taken away from him?

"Um," Stella started, but Noctis didn't flinch or even acknowledge her, didn't even note she returned. His mind was full of dark thoughts and pain. He knew years of pain and years of hopelessness; years of knowing the feeling of revenge. Killing the one who did it brought satisfaction, yes, but not enough.

If he killed her, the root of all Lillian's pain, all of his pain, would be in pain, wouldn't he? He felt a hand on his shoulder, and his thoughts halted for a brief second, _Lillian_, before they kicked back into gear and reminded him. That was Stella, the daughter of Satan, the daughter of the man he hated more than anyone else alive.

"We should stop for the night. We've been travelling for awhile, and you woke up late." He found himself saying, without really comprehending. His gaze turned to Stella, and she was looking at him in confusion, her beautiful face softer than he had seen in awhile. She nodded, but her eyes seemed hesitant. Good. They should be. She should fear him, because had enough of fearing her father. He had enough of nightmares of a night he wasn't sure happened, of seeing a murder in front of him, but not knowing it was true.

He had enough of half-forgotten memories that only contained pain, and real, whole memories that broke him each time he thought on them. He had enough of hating himself because he knew he didn't have the worst situation out of the people living here. He had enough of hating himself because he didn't believe that his life wasn't bad enough for himself to pity. He had enough of trying to be good when the cause of all his pain was right in front of him, his daughter, the girl the resistance would probably use to gain rights or freedom.

The King would never do such a thing.

She was going to die regardless.

"_Lillian." He called in the morning, a few days later. She had not left her bed since then, nor had she responded to him. It was as if she were a living corpse, though, if she had it her way, he would be bunking with an actual one. She wouldn't eat, nor would she drink, unless he prompted. It was tiring, but he did so, even going out of the way and abandoning any morals he might have once had to do the worse more vile jobs around. _

_Just so she could eat her favourite food, a pastry. _

_She barely touched it. _

_He was getting worried, and got even more terrified when he had to leave her. He had to, he knew. Just this afternoon he was going to have to go and mug the travelling merchant so that they would have enough food for awhile. Stealing was one thing… but the jobs Carl had for him? Well, there were some things that he never told Lillian, things he would never speak to another living, breathing soul. _

_He was corruptible. He was corrupted. He had wounded, stole, and intimidated and mugged. He had set buildings on fire with people inside them, and thrown a woman and her child into a raging river not an hour north. _

_Yet… he made sure he never killed anyone. He arrived early at the household, snuck in and counted the amount of people in the home, then, after setting it on fire, made sure that all of them escaped. He waited for the woman and her child to climb on the far bank, both alive and breathing and scared out of their wits, but alive. _

_Perhaps it was because he had nearly killed so many people that the thought of hunting down and killing whoever had done this to Lillian plagued every waking thought he had. _

_It was slowly poisoning him, corrupting him, defiling him. All he could think of were the faceless bodies of the people who had raped Lillian. Perhaps it had been one person who had bitten her neck, though the few times he got close to her, he noticed that there were two distinct, separate patterns. Two people, then. _

_He had a sickle for protection, along with a small knife he won from a street fight when he was thirteen. He had these weapons, each blunt but if he put enough pressure behind it… the dark thoughts clouded his mind, chilling him, yet at the same time lighting him up in a fire of rage and satisfaction he had never felt before. _

"_Who did this? Who raped you?" The words were out of his mouth before he could even think of how she might feel being asked so soon. He immediately felt guilty for it – she was going to bring up the memories now, regardless of whether she answered him or not. It was the same principle as telling someone not to think of something – they immediately think of it. _

"_I don't know." She whispered, and then shivered. Her voice cracked and broke, and then she curled more into herself. He hadn't seen her face directly in over five days. "They had the resistance brand. And one had a broken nose. Their hands…" She broke off and gasped loudly. "Their hands were all over! They," her breathing laboured, hitched, a sure sign she was about to cry, "everywhere… they touched…m-m-me-e-e. I wanted them to s-s-st-t-op-p, but they didn't, and they, they," She began to sob, an action that brought immediate signals to Noctis' brain. _

_He put a hand on her shoulder, wanting to comfort her, when she screamed bloody murder. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" He was able to make out between the shrieking mess. She scrambled away from his touch, hiding in the awkward corner of their small hut, shivering and shaking and once her screaming stopped, she looked at him with such fearful eyes. _

"_I-I-I'm SORRY!" She began to bawl. She pulled her knees to her chest, and cried into her arms. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" She began the mantra, shaking back and forth sobbing and her breath hitching so often they blended into one another. "Go away, go away, go away…" She began to repeat as a mantra, and he wasn't sure if she was talking to her memories or to him, but he left regardless. _

"_Lillian," He whispered softly, and when she shook her head violently, he somehow knew she was listening. "I have to go to work, you know Carl." _

"_Carl _KNOWS_." She pressed before her breath hitched and she began to sob again, very ignorant of the way Noctis felt as if he just had been plunged into cold water. Everything stopped, and he found himself at the door the next moment. _

"_Don't leave, okay Lillian?" He asked, though he expected no answer. "I'll be back soon." _

Noctis. Noctis! "Noctis!" His thoughts were broken through, and Noctis jerked, not even realizing where he was going, not even noticing he feet were taking him on the familiar path to a place his nightmares frequently visited. He was a killer, and after that… after that… it was no longer in self-defence. He seldom does jobs for Carl any longer. He didn't need to. There were other jobs, he knew, and now, whenever he went to Carl out of desperation, he never received any of the jobs he had when he was younger.

Perhaps the man felt… an obligation. He had watched, even for the briefest of moments, long enough to put names to faces and walk away.

The world was so… corrupted.

He was corrupted.

He was a murderer.

He was a monster.

He had lost his mind. Perhaps it had been awhile ago, perhaps it had been after Lillian called his name, way back when, when the spiral of everything going wrong started.

After that… after it was all over, he had locked himself away, gone mad briefly, then isolated. He hadn't spoken to any of his acquaintances with the exception of Donavon and Carl, and even then, it was because of a small shred of sanity.

What was wrong with him?

Had Carl put something in the food?

He had eaten both buns, was that the reason his emotions were as out of control now as they were then? WHAT WAS GOING ON? He had gotten so much better, normal, the person he was before everything died, where his heart was shredded. He had locked it away so tightly, ignored it all.

It was unhealthy to bottle up emotions. Was this the reason? Because seeing her, Stella, look so much like her, like Lillian, and then, when she acted just as Lillian had…

Stella was stronger.

But Stella hadn't actually been raped.

Looking at her, he couldn't help but feel a flash of two emotions, both passionate and raging and raw. One he couldn't identify, but he knew it conflicted with his desire to make her hurt. Why had she come? Why? He was perfectly _fine_. He had _forgiven_ a lot. Why did she have to come and reopen all those wounds?

He hadn't thought about Lillian in over three years.

Then she comes, and Lillian's ghost is drudged up from its bloody, shallow grave. All the nightmares he has had, all of his fears and regrets and anger.

Why did she suddenly bring them all up?

He didn't like being like this. He hated it. It wasn't him, and it was so eerily similar to _then_, that it terrified her and elated him at the same time. He was snapping, snapping under the bottled up pressure and regrets and anger and sadness.

"Here should be fine." He found himself saying through the silence, breaking it. Stella, who was walking silently beside him, a frown pinched between her eyebrows, glanced over at him, almost surprised he had spoken. Sunlight was dying, but that was expected. He found her late at night, and she had woken up past mid-day. Night would have to arrive soon, and if it didn't, well…

Perhaps he really had gone insane all those years ago, no, he knew he had, but perhaps he hadn't been able to pull himself out of it, and this was all a warped dream.

"Here?" She asked, confused, her lip pulling up slightly out of habit, he supposed, but it only helped to fuel his anger. She thought this was bad? Sometimes he had to sleep in the mud, in the rain, and fear that he won't wake up because he had died because of cold, or more importantly, when he had done so with Lillian, and fear even more that he _would_ wake up and she _wouldn't_.

He pointed to the loose planks between the two corners of the two square building's roofs. It acted as a roof, and the season this time of year was wont to rain regularly. "It'll keep us dry." Well, hardly, but the corners were always better to sleep in than anywhere else, it protected your back. She hesitated, before nodding.

He will make it easy.

Painless.

He'll kill her in her sleep.

All he had to do was wait.

* * *

_A/N: Didn't expect that, now did you? Now, since your all at the edge of your seats, can you do one BIG favour? REVIEW! And if you feel like it, I have a poll on: My next story, choose which you like best (They won't be posted until Plague on all your Houses is finished) REVIEW! _


	12. Chapter XII

PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES

Chapter XII

* * *

THE FIRST dream Stella dreamt that night was full of dragons and sacrificed maidens.

It had started out as a myriad of colours and feelings, contorting and twisting violently and unpredictably in front of her. It made her mind agitated and her body restless. Her fingers twitched, her body shifted, however no large movements were made.

Then, the raging waves of colour stopped, and a furious, steady beat began.

It was fuddled at first, vague and muted, but as it grew louder, the sound became crisp. Suddenly the beat became something so much more, and the hairs on her arms raised, as her heart beat in trepidation. The beating became clear, and was immediately recognizable as deep, throaty, heavy breathing.

She opened her eyes, or, in the dream, because rather than night and the ghetto, she saw an open, clear blue sky. She sat herself up, felt the sweet dew on the grass, as the moisture dripped into her palm, and looked around.

There was fire.

And screaming.

And blood.

Suddenly the sky shifted, and, much like the tormenting colours and emotions as before, turned into an angry, violent red. Thunder shattered itself across the blood red sky, and the screams reached a loudness that could have shattered windows, if there were any.

A loud growl, that increased and turned into a mighty roar, and then a shrieking scream, brought her attention whirling behind her. There, to her left, its giant, leathery wings beating furious gusts of air to the ground, its jaw wide open and snapping, before it reared its head, and a large blowing was heard, before, with a large, angry hiss, the dragon breathed fire.

The stream shot out in high pressure, and incinerated the area around, the grass catching fire and blazing into its own inferno.

A high-pitched scream, and her attention were dragged to where a figure in a billowing white dress was tied with thick, heavy rope to a tree. Stella was to her feet before she noticed it, and started to run. Each step took her closer, and then, before she noticed it, her feet began to sink in, the mud getting thicker and thicker, until it was no longer mud, and she was no longer in a field.

The dirty, muddy water was to her waist, the reeds in the water kept catching on her feet, twisting themselves around her ankles, and pulling, making her fall in the water. She caught a glimpse of the dragon pulling back, the girl's crying face, and then the dragon lunging forward, its jaw unhinged.

She opened her mouth to scream, but water rushed in, chilling her body, just as the image in her mind of the sacrificed maiden's chilled her soul.

That woman's face… was hers.

* * *

Every single time she twitched, he tensed.

Her sleep was not restful, and whatever she was dreaming of, seemed to reflect on the horror he was about to put her through. The blade was dull, if he did not she would have time to wake up, and feel as her last moments were escaping her.

Stella paused in her thrashing, and sighed slightly, as if her dream finally evened out, and she was at peace again, even if it was for but a moment. He sighed – no – he heaved a breath. In, deeply allowing the cold night air to circulate through his lungs, then out, slowly, pausing to watch as his breath misted over and swirled in the night air.

His hands were shaking. He didn't understand why; it was easy. So… so easy – too easy, but he found his hands shook whenever he raised them. Lillian… did Lillian feel like this? It was probable. The probability hurt. Even now he felt weak and useless, conflicted and hurt. He had no control because he was attempting to remain _in_ control. He felt feverish, yet frozen, elated yet terrified. He was too many contradictions and oxymorons at once.

What had she ever done? To him, she was more an inconvenience, and that was pushing it. Her father had done everything – it was _him_ he hated. He was the person that sat at the heart of it all. Without her father, his country wouldn't have fallen, and this wouldn't have happened to them – the slums, the ghetto. Lillian wouldn't have had to grow up in mud, dirt, poverty and crime. She would have grown up in that cottage home she spoke of so fondly – the one where her and her family wanted to grow a garden, but there wasn't a green thumb amongst them.

He had done it before, and if he were honest with himself, if it were anyone else it would have been easy. He had killed that part of himself that night – cut it out with the same blade he held now, and buried it with the bodies of the men he killed. He was a murderer; he had accepted that fact a long time ago, even if he had started to walk down the pathetic path of redemption. Saving three lives meant naught when you killed someone. No one's life was worth equal value to someone else's.

He would kill them again if he had the chance, but he was not naive enough to believe that becoming good and saving others would be enough to wash the blood from his hands. And neck – and face, chest, arms… their blood sprayed everywhere.

It was after _that_ that whenever some half-crazed man, stricken with sickness and deranged with madness came and attacked him, he held no mercy – he _still_ had no mercy – for them, and so he killed them, each and every one. Each time the nightmares returned briefly, before he shoved them back down until he became as apathetic as he possibly could. Stella had called herself a monster. He was the real one, really. He felt no guilt for killing those eight people, felt satisfaction in it, even.

He really couldn't care less about saving others – it would do nothing to erase the scar on his mind and on his heart, if anything it would darken them, because deep down, he knew that nothing he could ever do would erase those sins.

To be perfectly honest, he did not care.

_He was in a blind haze. He stumbled through the streets, dull knife gripped in hand until his knuckles turned white. His breathing was irregular, hitching every so often. _Why_ did Carl know? WHY DID HE KNOW? To know meant he saw, unless Lillian told him – something he hardly doubted, considering how hard it was for her to tell _him_ – someone she trusted enough to live with, someone she considered her closest friend? _

_He saw, the bastard saw _everything_, he was sure of it. He staggered on, violently pushing people out of the way, some called back, some merely grunted, in as much as a haze as he was. Not in the same sort of haze, but one that blinded the owner of all common sense and reason. His haze was anger, pure, unadulterated anger. Carl knew. _

_He didn't even think to be grateful for that small fact, because if Carl didn't know, then the men who raped Lillian would have gotten away with it scot-free. He couldn't – he wouldn't even allow his train of thought to go down that path, because if Carl KNEW then he would have SEEN and therefore could have HELPED. _

_But he didn't. _

_The man was as good as dead – of course, only until _after_ he found out who had actually done it. He turned a corner, crashing into a woman, who burst out sobbing. He didn't turn to tell her an apology and he didn't care to. There were crying women all the time – children cried less, it seemed, but men more so. The strongest were the younger generation, and the corrupted, disgusting world they lived in just broke down one of the strongest. _

_Lillian; pure, strong, friendly Lillian. Lillian, who had too many faults to make up for her strong points, but whose faults were forgivable anyway – they broke her down. She was a mess, a shell, and though it pained him to say, she was as good as dead at the moment. Never again would she be able to smile like she used to be able to, never again would he be able to look at her without remembering what had happened. They had killed a large part of her – and the dead don't rise. _

_Which was exactly the point. _

_He could kill the part of himself that cried for those two stupid souls who tried to kill him. He could kill his conscience, get rid of the useless thing called guilt – guilt over the fact that he didn't particularly care that they had died, or that he had killed them. It was a good thing, that apathy that had haunted him so over the last three years. He would embrace it, and forget completely about feeling sorry for killing. He was dammed, and it was okay – all right. _

_He was corrupted. _

_He was a monster. _

_He did not care. _

_He turned another corner, this time to the left, and saw it: his destination. It was a small, inconspicuous home, large enough to stand in, and for perhaps a family to live in, but recognisable enough. The door was thick and heavy, and actually couldn't be broken easily – a rarity in the ghetto. There were no windows, either; that door was the only entrance. _

_It was upon this door, caked in mud and dark enough to hide the blood stains within its grains, which he knocked heavily. It was more of a pound, really, for he hammered his fist down on the door until it shook. The door swung inwards, and he was faced with the stone-faced guard of Carl's – Norman, he believed his name was. _

"This is serious business._" Noctis growled out, unconsciously switching back to the language that had been banned for years, the language he had grown up knowing. "I need to see Carl." Needed, wanted, will – all were words he could have used, but he could barely make his own tongue work well enough for those two short sentences to be coherent. _

_Norman was an impressively tall man, in comparison to his lanky sixteen-year-old self, with black curly hair that was pulled back at his nape and a strong jaw. His nose was bent from where Carl had punched him – a story that seems to be repeated whenever the situation the two are in turns sour. It had something to do with Norman (or whatever his name was) hitting on his girlfriend at the time. _

_Norman was Carl's cousin; apparently they bonded after that incident, or something. _

"_It's all right, Norman, let him in." A voice on the inside, heavy and low – befitting the large, intimidating man that Carl was – sighed out. Norman looked Noctis once over, probably noting the irritation and impatience, and slowly – so, so slowly – the tall, darkly skinned muscled man stepped aside. Noctis promptly stepped in, his eyes skipping over the single table full of spare coins and papers, the lone candle stub that illuminated the clay and wood walls, and landed right on Carl himself. _

"_You know why I'm here." _

"Yes." _Carl responded, he too, switching into their native language, "_And as it stands, I will tell you – as long as you swear to not hold a grudge or any sort of vendetta against me." _Noctis nearly growled, but refrained from doing so. It took a special kind of coward to not even bother to turn around when someone in his situation came crashing in. _

_But that was Carl. He had no shame. _

_Bald head, thick eyebrows, small nose with large nostrils and a simple, refined moustache – he waited for the large man to turn around, so that he would once more be reacquainted with his face, bit the man made no move to do so. What was he thinking? What was he planning? Whatever it was, Noctis was not in the mood to adhere to one of Carl's business propositions. _

"You saw her get…"_He tried to spit it out, but the word would not come. Carl shifted uncomfortably. Good, let the bastard be uncomfortable. Norman leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms. How wonderful – he saw no threat in the small package that was he, Noctis. How utterly demeaning. _

"I did._" Noctis clenched his hands tighter, until his dirty fingernails drew blood. How unhygienic, it might get infected. "_Only in passing, and if I had stayed there would have been a good chance that my entire operation would have gotten ratted out._" What a sad attempt for an excuse, though he supposed it had merit. Some of the people Carl had him deal with made the threat that, if he didn't deliver on time, they would let slip what was going on to the guards. _

_He was still coward. "_You know she is important to me._" He snarled, stepping closer. Norman shifted, as if reacting to an old habit, before settling himself once more against the wall. How _utterly_ demeaning. He was no threat – they were wrong. _

"I knew only until after a block or so – I'm very bad with faces, you know that._" It didn't matter, the point is you saw her get raped and you did nothing about it. "_I'm expecting someone soon-"

"Don't you _dare_ tell me to leave!_" _

"I will tell you their names and where to find them, if you agree to go._" What? Noctis hesitated, before his arms relaxed from where they were; in a ready stance for a fight, or at least a few punches. He swallowed thickly, before thinking over his options. Finally, he nodded. _

_That bastard still hadn't turned, nor had he really stopped scribbling down whatever it was on the paper in front of him. "Fine." He bit out, stressing the vowel so unnaturally that it nearly distorted the meaning. What a way to butcher his own language, but it did not matter. _

_He imagined the smirk that was doubt on Carl's lips at the moment. _"Harrison and Baron; they will more or less be down the street where that strange gambling centre is – I'd look there first, or wait, because whenever that person – Donavon, right? - needs them, they're always there._" _

_Noctis left before the sentence even finished, Norman's laughter trailing behind his hurried steps. _

She was beautiful, really. Especially in the moonlight. Her skin seemed to glow with it – like a ghost. It seemed like a shame to extinguish such a person, but in truth, death claimed everyone – except, it seemed like those who want to die, but are too stubborn to kill themselves.

He choked back a sob – when had he started crying? Why was it that _every fucking emotion_ that he had buried down, so, so far down, was exploding out _now_? Why – _why_? The knife dropped from his hands, and clattered to the floor. He didn't allow himself to grieve, because he didn't _deserve to_. He couldn't, he… not for Lillian, so he shoved it all down.

So why was he crying now.

He held his hand, the one that seemed to burn now, where the knife was, to his gut. His other hand clenched it harshly, until he could feel it going numb. Tears streamed down his face, and he fell forward, his forehead landing softly on her stomach. He didn't want to cry – he wanted revenge. Revenge was so much easier than grieving.

He never grieved, not once. Not when the woman who took care of him died – the woman whose name he could not even remember now. He didn't really grieve like a normal person would have when she died. He didn't grieve when Lillian died, nor when his innocence was shattered. He never cried – never grieved. He just wasn't the sort.

_SO WHY WAS HE BREAKING DOWN NOW? _

A slim, delicate hand began to softly, gingerly pet his hair, the fingers swimming through his dark strands. It made him sob harder, until he pulled himself to her warm body. He couldn't kill her, he wanted to, or thought he wanted to or maybe he needed to or who _knows_? He was exhausted, terrified of who knows what, and just… confused.

"It's alright, everything's okay now, shh," her words were soft, and her hand running along his scalp was soothing. He felt more fingers, gently, carefully, skim along his back, until they hooked themselves around his side, and pulled him closer. His knees slid from underneath him, until he was lying next to her, crying his eyes out like a pathetic child, while she murmured soothing nothings and petted his hair.

She was so tiny in his harsh grip, felt like she could break under his shaking hand, but he still held her lie his life depended on it. "I-I'm sorry!" He bit out, and from that declaration, the hand paused, the words hitched and halted.

Perhaps she had seen the knife, perhaps she garnered what he had planned to do, perhaps she was terrified, perhaps she didn't understand what he was saying sorry for at all. He just continued to cry, however, something strange happened. She sat up, holding his wrists and pulling them off of her, and made him sit up as well.

Her face was a lot calmer now than he had ever seen it. She seemed determined, brave and strong – but perhaps that was just in comparison with his own breakdown. A harmless, whimpering puppy could seem like a strong figure to him right now. Her eyes flickered down, to where he had dropped the knife, and he saw the fear flash along her features before she swallowed it down.

"My father," she started, her voice soft, and could almost not be heard – he forced his crying to settle down. "I'm sorry for what he did to you."

His breathing hitched, and he felt as if he was going to have another seizure of sorts then and there. She became startled, before holding his head to her chest tightly, petting his hair lovingly. "Thank you." Her voice was just a whimper almost, like a soft plea. "I'm sorry." Two different sentences, yet he understood them both. Thank you for not killing me, I'm sorry for bringing up something that almost made you do so.

He held onto her, his crying finally dying out, and he suddenly felt exhausted. His lip quirked slightly, as he finally realised what felt so odd about their positions – he felt like a child, and she like his mother.

She was not his mother.

* * *

To tell the truth, Stella did not know what to feel. She felt numb, and the form in her arms that was shaking made her body numb as well. Every emotion seemed to be drained out of her – it had been so from the time she had seen the knife. Noctis was in far too dangerous of a mood for her to be confrontational. But still, she felt pity for him.

Her father had done this to all of them. He had carved out scars in each and every one of the people that lived here's hearts. He damaged them – and even though she had not a single idea what was going on through Noctis' head, or what caused his scar, she could very clearly see how deep and intricate it was.

He was more damaged than she was after those men… touched her. He was like a child who killed a part of himself to become a man sooner, only to be suddenly caught up in the nothingness that he lacked. He didn't need someone to show him the way – he knew the way, he was breaking down because of what he lost during his travels.

She held onto him, feeling more protective of him than she ever felt of anyone else in her life. She didn't want to let him go, she wanted to be the one that made him smile again.

Oddly enough, his breakdown made her feel better – maybe it was the reminder that she wasn't the only one who wanted to just curl up in a ball and cry, maybe it was the fact that whatever it was that was plaguing Noctis was seemingly far worse than she could ever dream. She held him close, and felt as his sobbing subsided.

His hands were suddenly on her, on her chest, and the phantom hands joined his, but before she could voice her fear, he pushed her away, and let go. Oh, so that was what he was doing – he was a man, and never once had she seen either of her brother's cling to her in such a way when they cried. Usually it was the other way around.

He wouldn't look her in the eye, but instead off to the side, and finally, for the first time since she met him, his eyes shone. They glistened with tears and hurt, of a pain that was too deep to ever really go away. Was this what she had looked like, the first night they met?

That was yesterday, yesterday night. How strange, that she knew so much about a stranger, more than she ever learned about any of her friends in court, nor her brothers. It caused something inside her to flutter, to twist, and it somehow felt similar to being sick – only in a good way. She pushed the matter aside, and left it as is.

"We should get some sleep. Or you should – you should; I'll find somewhere else."

She shook her head. "Give me the knife and I'll be fine."

His lips quirked into a demented smirk, something that scared her, yet exhilarated her at the same time. "If you plan to kill me, know the blade is dull."

Her entire body tensed, before she snatched the metal away from him, and clasped it firmly in her hands. "If I plan on killing you, I'd wait until you got me home and have you executed."

His smile did not leave, like she expected it to. "I'd deserve nothing less."

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, though the tears still stayed. They soaked his entire face, made his eyes red and puffy, his skin blotchy and discoloured – even in the moonlight. He licked his lips, before nodding to her, and leaving, his pace uneven, and while he sought another decent sleeping place, he wiped his cheeks many times.

His departure was what made her relax, even though the grip on the dull blade was in a vice. She let out a long, deep breath. There, no reason to overreact. She forced herself to stay calm, and it all worked out. If she freaked out, the outcome most likely would have been different. She had reason to fear him, but he was still as lost as a little boy – well, a child that contemplated on murdering her…

She would just have to keep her guard up around him, even though it seemed like his conscience won out in the end. She froze, before choking back on a cry. That was right – he almost killed her just then. He had been so close, that if he had simply been some heartless villain, she would be nothing more than a corpse, like the one she left with nail puncture wounds riddled in his body.

It would have been a fitting ending, though the truth still terrified her. Shaking her head, she stood up. She wouldn't be able to sleep tonight unless she found somewhere else to sleep, so she began to walk, away from the small corner. She had to trust Noctis, trust that his breakdown was over, and that her life was not going to be in peril around him.

That was a strange thought: she trusted him. Or maybe she trusted that she couldn't trust him. She was not sure which. She had the knife now, and she knew she would defend herself if need be – to the point of murder, she supposed-

"Oh," She announced softly, when once more she was in the presence of the handsome boy who had both saved her and tried to kill her all at once. "Find a place yet?" Small talk she could do, and hopefully they could get over the… well… conversational-wise. Having awkward sentences exchanged back and forth wouldn't do well.

He didn't move immediately, he may have tensed when he heard her voice, but he didn't turn his head for a moment or so. He was leaning, face first, against a wall, using his forearms to balance his body. Head bowed in penitence, hands clasped into an angry prayer above his head. He shifted, slightly, and she could see one part of his face.

Tears still streamed it, regardless of the ten minutes or so that they had last seen each other. There was no scowl, mere grievance.

Stella was not vain enough to believe that it was because he nearly killed her.

"Why are you crying?" She asked, swallowing down her fear, and reassuring herself that she still had the knife. He had the experience, a small voice taunted, but she pushed it back down. No reason to have her senses override with fear, because if she did, her senses might just fry. The amount of adrenaline in her body over the last day had to have reached far above healthy levels.

"Why aren't you?" That was a good rebuttal, and she frowned at it. Tears prickled at her eyes, as if they came by his command. She angrily blinked them away. She had already decided, hadn't she? That she wouldn't be scared anymore?

"I've had enough with crying." The truth, but she doubted she would be able to keep to that forever. "I," she swung her body over until it faced the opposite wall he was, "I'm sorry." She said it again, even though she wasn't certain what she was apologising for. "Thank you," another repeat, but this one was much simpler.

"I don't believe in that legend." He croaked – his voice hoarse from the sobbing.

"You don't?" That was a surprise, wasn't it?

"Saving others doesn't erase murder." He sighed, before leaning forward until his head rested against the wall. The clasped hands turned white. "I'm going to hell because I don't give a damn about the men I've murdered – people, one of them was a woman." He hastily corrected himself.

She didn't know what to say to that, except that he was right. Saving three – six - people would do nothing except perhaps make oneself feel better. It had nothing to do redeeming your sins. That was a child's dream. A dream she would have liked to cling to, but a dream was still just that – a fantasy.

Silence fell upon them, and even when it became thick, Stella could not find it in herself to break it. He was thinking on his dark past, and therefore she was forced to as well. Noctis had moved, if only slightly. He had taken to gripping on his dark locks and pulling lightly. It made her want to comfort him, but what tormented him was not something she could comfort. It was something he had to deal with, and so she would wait in silence until he did so.

Her body was exhausted, but she did not feel tired, nor did her eyelids feel heavy. Once home she would probably sleep for days in her large, plush bed. She was not there yet, but she could practically feel the silk white sheets as they glided over her clean body-

"If I asked, would you do me a favour?"

Stella blinked, her daydream vanishing. "What is it?" What sort of favour would have been more appropriate, but she did not want to be rude. Not when she was finally getting back to her old self.

"We should get some rest."

Stella paused, shifted onto another foot, before nodding.

* * *

_A/N: Here's the next chapter! Sorry for the long wait, but unfortunately I've been away from my computer/the internet, so this is the first time I have been able to update! Anyway, hope you enjoy it! Review please! _


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